Taken
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: When Spock is abducted and sold into slavery, blinded and muted by his owner, he finds himself adjusting to a completely new life. Rated 18, for 1 instance of, and implied, non-consensual m/m intercourse. Pairing - Spock/OC Male
1. Prologue

Prologue.

Starbase 53 was a distant outpost, hanging in space at the outer edges of the Federation's reach, put there for border enforcement rather than local business. But like similar outposts all the way back through history, its presence had brought people, and then trade, and then entertainment for traders and travellers and Federation personnel alike. The starbase itself sat in an empty reach of space, equidistant between the three nearest stars – but other, private bases had soon sprung up nearby, and then they had been ratified and made safe by Federation authorities, and then they had been connected to the starbase by arms, and now the place was a sprawling metropolis in the void of space, entirely enclosed in a space-proof hull.

The Federation ship _Enterprise_ had been at the starbase for a week, undergoing repairs to its starboard nacelle after a vicious encounter with a hostile ship. The crew had been taking full advantage of this period of relative inactivity, having been given permission to use any free time they had on the starbase. There were hundreds of other small ships moored about the station, and the opportunity to mingle with alien cultures and experience alien entertainments was too much to resist.

Two humanoid men stood near the side of the central thoroughfare in the culture centre of the base, watching the milling crowds. One, a tall and thin man with a piercing intelligence in his eyes, was standing almost at attention, with his hands clasped behind his back. The other, a younger, overweight and spoilt looking man in expensive clothes, leant against the wall behind him, picking idly at his fingernails as he stared into the crowd.

'There,' he said finally, nodding at a group of Starfleet personnel in the crowd. 'That's the one.'

The other man followed his gaze, seeing three men, two human and one Vulcan, making their way towards a nearby café.

'The Vulcan, sir?' the thinner man asked doubtfully.

'That's him. He's neat enough,' the fatter man continued. 'He's attractive, I like his hair-colour. And he's bound to be good at what I want him for. I've heard they're all perfectionists anyway.'

'He won't take it easily, sir,' the other warned him. 'He'll fight it. Vulcans are – '

'Oh, rubbish – they're pacifists,' the young man cut across him dismissively. 'He'll see the most sensible course, and take it. And if he doesn't, you'll beat him. And if he still doesn't, you'll beat him again, until he does.'

'Sir, that one in yellow – that's the captain of the Starfleet ship,' the thinner man said in a firm but respectful tone. 'Those two with him are bound to be of high rank. They won't take a disappearance lightly.'

The younger man stiffened, turning towards the other with a hard look in his eyes. Suddenly his bearing had changed from that of a spoilt, rather bored young man to a master talking to his servant.

'I didn't ask for your advice, Robbesh,' he said tersely. 'I want that Vulcan. See that you get him for me.'


	2. Chapter 1

1.

Spock drifted into consciousness slowly at first – but as soon as he could feel he was shocked into wakefulness. He was *_cold*_. It was a cold like the piercing cold of the _Enterprise_'s uninsulated storage rooms at the edge of the hull, a cold that made his lungs hurt when he breathed in. He was also naked, and lying on an intensely uncomfortable surface. By the way it cut into his back and legs at intervals, he surmised it was a metal grid rather than something solid.

More disturbing still was the fact that he was bound, and obviously being held in a very small space. His mouth was held shut with some kind of immovable tape, but he could feel a short tube passing into his mouth between his lips and teeth, pressing his tongue onto the base of his mouth. His wrists and ankles were locked solid to either side of the container he was in by metal cuffs. He could feel the sides of the container, tight along his arms and against his head and his feet. Despite the fact that he was in utter darkness he could tell that the top of the container was very close to his face. He could feel his breath spreading back down over his cheeks as he exhaled, as the sole bit of warmth in this place. He could only be thankful that he was not naturally claustrophobic, although his coffin-like confinement was unpleasant to say the least.

He turned his head from side to side, noting how sluggish his reactions were. Despite the urgings of his brain to be alert he felt sleepy and strengthless, as if he had been sedated. He tried to wrench his wrists and ankles from their bonds, but they wouldn't break, and he didn't know whether that was because they were too strong or because he was too weak. He didn't know how long he had been in here, but his mouth was dry and his stomach was clenching on emptiness, and each breath he took in was tainted with the strong scent of stale urine and faeces. He must have been asleep long enough for his body's autonomic functions to take over from his control. The grid he was lying on was presumably there to stop him lying entirely in his own filth.

What had happened…?

He remembered – taking his leave of Jim and McCoy. They had spent the afternoon wandering about the starbase, browsing the small shops. Jim and McCoy were going on to a bar, but he declined their invitation to join them. He – had been making his way back towards the culture centre. He was moving through a busy thoroughfare, people jostling on either side of him. He had not been alone even for a second. Someone had bumped against him, and…

Spock frowned. He remembered feeling something sharp against his arm. He had thought nothing of it in that instant – but then he had felt a weakness spreading through him, and someone had said something about it being disgusting, Starfleet officers being drunk, and he had nodded in agreement, then realised that the man was referring to him, and felt a moment of annoyance as he wondered what Kirk or McCoy had slipped into his drink earlier. And then – he was being helped to walk, and then – nothing, until he had woken in this freezing, dark confinement.

He struggled to stay awake, to assess his situation – but even in this cramped, cold darkness he found himself drifting uncontrollably in and out of sleep. Despite the discomfort of his position it was impossible to fight the drug in his system. He had little idea of how much time was passing, but he could feel and hear the vibration of an engine through the metal box he was in, and occasionally he was thrown against the sides of the box as if he was in a craft that was banking sharply, so he presumed that he was in a ship, being transported somewhere. He imagined himself to be in a small craft – perhaps a small fighter or space-yacht – but there had been so many of that description milling about the starbase that it was impossible to know what or who had abducted him.

Then during one of his half-awake phases there was a sudden noise, and the box he was in was pulled out as if it was a drawer, and he was suddenly blinking against what seemed like brilliantly bright light. Before his eyes could adjust fully a cloth had been dropped over them, and he could see nothing but the small amount of light that filtered through the weave. He shook his head to try to dislodge it, but it was just replaced more firmly and tucked under his head at either side.

'This one going to market?' a man asked, squeezing at Spock's bicep, then poking at his stomach muscles. He tensed, fully aware of his naked helplessness. 'He looks fit enough to make you some good money.'

'No, he's a commission,' a second man said. He felt something touch the tube in his mouth as the man spoke. 'Eight thousand I'm getting for him.'

The first man whistled in admiration. 'Not bad!'

Water began to trickle into Spock's mouth, and he gulped at it despite himself. There were times for trying to preserve dignity, and this was not one of them. There was a bitter taste to the liquid – probably more of the drug they were using to keep him passive – but his options were drink it or choke, and he had no wish to choke while tied down and helpless.

'Oh, believe me, this one's worth it,' the second man continued. The water stopped, to be replaced with some kind of bland, liquidised food which, like the water, Spock was forced to swallow to prevent choking. 'Danger money. He'll have people looking for him – people you don't want to mess with.' The liquid food stopped, and the tube in his mouth moved again as the attachment was removed. 'And Vulcans are sharp ones. Look at him – he's trying to work out ways now of getting out of here. Strong and clever – that's why they're useful, but they're not easy to tame. It's best we just take him and – '

As he spoke he pushed the drawer closed, and Spock was left in darkness again, mulling on that ominous conversation. He heard the metallic noise of another drawer being opened, and then, after a few minutes, another. He didn't know how many people there were here being held like him, but it was obvious that he was not unique. By the time the third drawer was opened he was slipping back into sleep against all his efforts to stay awake.

******

Time passed. He thought perhaps he had been in the container for a week, but he had only been fed twice in all that time, and he had spent most of the time slipping in and out of drugged sleep. And then he woke to find himself kneeling on the floor, muscles spasming with cramp all over his body, struggling against the drug's insistence that he sleep again. His hands were roped behind his back and there was a blindfold over his eyes. His mouth was no longer taped up, but his throat was so dry that he could not speak. There were noises of boots on metal decking, and people talking, but his internal translator had been deactivated and he understood nothing. He tried to move, and realised that his feet were tied together by another short length of rope.

An icy blast of water hit him like something solid, and he gasped, unable to stop himself as he toppled over onto his front on the floor. The pummelling, disinfected-scented spray moved up and down his body, concentrating on his buttocks and groin to wash away a week's worth of waste. A foot kicked at his side, rolling him over so that his front could be washed too. Then the water stopped, and he lay on the floor, panting and shivering with cold.

'I demand – to speak – ' he began, trying to get himself at least back onto his knees if not to his feet.

Someone snapped something unintelligible, and simultaneously cuffed him about the head, and then he was being manhandled into what seemed to be a cage, and lifted up and onto another surface. It must have been another vehicle, because the hum of an engine began, and suddenly he was moving again. This journey, at least, was a short one, and after little more than an hour he was being dragged out of the cage, and led across rough ground into a building. Someone cut the ropes on his wrists and ankles and pulled the blindfold from his eyes, and he found himself standing in a moderately large room with five men standing around him as if to stop him running away.

Spock stayed motionless. The phaser pointed at his chest by one of the men was incentive enough to stay passive. He was naked, and weak and exhausted from his transportation to this place, and he had too much sense to attempt a fight.

'Please,' he began. 'Can someone explain to me – '

The man with the phaser cut across him sharply in an incomprehensible language, stepping a little closer in a menacing way.

Spock fell silent. It was obvious that this wasn't simply a misunderstanding that would be cleared up with a call to the nearest Federation consul. He would have to ask questions later, when he wasn't being threatened with a weapon.

He looked about himself cautiously. The room he was in was largely unfurnished, with open doorways leading off it. The walls were a dull ochre colour, with no pictures or decorations, and just a few side-tables and cabinets along them. The men around him were talking to each other, but he couldn't recognise their language. One of them, a slim, tall man with intelligent grey eyes, seemed to be in charge, but he was ignoring Spock, and talking to an unshaven, scruffy man who he imagined to be his abductor. Money changed hands, and then the scruffy man left.

The slim man moved to stand in front of him, looking him up and down with satisfaction. Then he touched a small metal cylinder to Spock's arm. The device clicked, and there was a sensation of electricity shooting through every nerve of his body and then holding it rigid. In an instant his entire body was paralysed, as if his mind had fallen out of contact with his body. He told himself to breathe in, but even his lungs were set in stone. He stared ahead of himself, unable to turn his eyes to see what was happening. He could still feel – he could feel the odd, cold pressure of the device on his arm, and the chill of the air on his body – but he could do nothing. He felt as if the slightest touch would send him crashing to the floor like a log.

Orders were barked, and a man dressed in a neat, dark uniform stepped forward, and sealed a flat metal band about his left wrist, Then he touched a sleek, finely pointed device to his throat. There was a split second sensation of immense heat about the centre of his throat, and then the feeling stopped. The man scanned him with a hand-held unit, glanced at the screen, and nodded. Spock gave a moment's curiosity to what had been done, but his need to breathe was gradually overtaking all other concerns. He could feel a weakness slipping over his body that the paralysis device wouldn't let him succumb to.

The man spoke to the ringleader, then raised the pointed instrument towards Spock's face. Spock recoiled – or at least, his brain told him to recoil, but his body didn't listen. His perception of time suddenly sharpened threefold, the movement of the device towards his right eye seeming to take minutes when he knew it was a matter of a second. He told himself to close his eyes hard, but his eyelids stayed rigidly open. The tip of the device touched his pupil, and discomfort radiated through his eye, making tears run down his cheek. And then there was that excruciating burning sensation again, and abruptly all vision died from that eye. Spock stared out of his remaining sighted eye, desperately taking in all he could see in the certainty of what was to happen next. He ruthlessly quelled a sense of panic as the device was moved towards his left eye, watching the tip come closer until it touched, and the burning pain killed all light in that one too.

Almost instantly the paralysis device was moved from his arm, and Spock gasped in breath, his hands shooting uselessly to his face, touching his eyelids, wiping away the tears and trying fruitlessly to rub some kind of sight back into his eyes. It made no difference whether his eyes were closed or open. It was not truly dark – it was as if the nerves themselves had forgotten how to see, and he had no residual awareness either of sight or darkness.

He opened his mouth to speak – and then came the second horror. No sound but a breathy wheeze would come from his mouth, as if his vocal cords had simply been removed. He pressed his lips together, dropping his hands to his side and trying to recover some decorum. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't even ask his captors *_why*_, or if the damage was permanent. He could hear them moving around him, and he fought to keep his hands still, rather than holding them out uselessly in defence at what he could not see.

'There. Into that room,' one of them said – the same one, Spock thought, that had been talking to the scruffy man. They must have finally re-activated his internal translator. A hand gripped at his arm, pushing him, and he stumbled forwards, unable to restrain himself now he was moving from reaching out ahead of himself with his hands. He was being moved towards a doorway – he knew that much – but he had no idea what lay on the other side of it.

'You'll find clothes on your sleeping mat,' the man said. 'Dress yourself.'

He stepped forward cautiously, away from the man's touch, but then he stopped, paralysed by his ignorance of what was around him. He did not even know if the floor was level.

'Oh, just take him to it,' one of the others said impatiently. 'We'll be here forever.'

'No. He needs to learn to manage if he's to be useful. This is the only way. You go – all of you. I won't need you now he's pacified.' He waited a moment as multiple footsteps left the outer room, then kicked at Spock's calf lightly, muttering, 'Go on. Get your clothes.'

Spock moved forward uncertainly again, then the man said, 'The sleeping mat's on the floor. Get down on your knees and feel for it. It's the only one that hasn't been slept on. You'll be able to tell by the smell.'

Spock pressed his lips together, dropping to his knees and wishing earnestly that he could be left alone to this demeaning task. Crawling on the floor was bad enough, but being seen crawling blind and naked like this revolted him, despite all his disciplines. He paused a moment, trying to work out how to gain more information about the space he was in. He still, mercifully, had excellent hearing. That was to his advantage.

He brushed his palm over the floor. It seemed to be made of wooden boards, hard but at least warm. He rapped his knuckles sharply on the surface, and listened. It didn't sound like a very big room. It was hard to make an accurate estimate, but he forced himself to be satisfied with approximations. Perhaps twenty or twenty-five square metres. Logically bedrolls would be along the walls, out of the way, and he had just come in through the door – so he felt to his left and after only a few moments felt a thick wad of fabric on the floor. He could smell the scent of stale sweat, though, so presumably the mat was not his. He moved on, and sensed a feeling of satisfaction from the man in the doorway. Three more mats had the same thick scent of sweat and grease – but then he touched one that felt clean and smelt only of some kind of detergent. The fifth bed along, and in the corner. He would have to remember that.

He ran his hands over the mat, feeling folded bulks of cloth on it. One object felt like a blanket, so he put that aside and turned his attention to two other, smaller items. It was ridiculously difficult to identify what they were, if they were inside out or the right way round, but eventually he decided that one must be some type of loose tunic, and the v-shaped area of the neck was probably the front – and that the other piece of clothing was some kind of slim kilt that would fasten about his waist.

He dressed himself carefully, sensing the watching eyes of his captor. He wanted to ask the man his name, but he would have to wait until he decided to tell him – if he decided to tell him. He turned his attention back to the kilt, fumbling with the unfamiliar fastening. It seemed near impossible to work it out by touch alone, but finally it clicked together.

'Now, present yourself,' the man said as Spock straightened up.

Spock got to his feet, turning toward him. There was nothing else he could do.

'No, over here. And don't walk like a cripple,' he said impatiently as Spock began cautiously towards him. 'Keep your head upright, lift your feet properly when you walk. Oh, for the Lord's sake,' he sighed as the kilt slipped its fastening and dropped to the floor. 'And your tunic's inside out. Fix it.'

Spock bent hurriedly to recover the kilt and cover his nakedness again. He didn't expect help, and in a way he was glad the man did not offer it, because this time his fingers felt more certain of what they were doing, and the clasp seemed to close more securely. He adjusted his top, then straightened up again, turning to the man and raising his head as if he was looking at his face.

'That'll do,' he said. 'But if you present yourself shoddily you'll incur punishment – remember that. Now. I'm Master Robbesh – I oversee this seven of slaves.'

Spock's head jerked at that word. He had suspected what his fate was, but now he knew for certain. He wasn't just a captive – he was a slave...

'You're to obey every order I give you,' Master Robbesh continued. 'If you don't, you'll be punished. I imagine humiliation will trouble you more than pain, so if you need chastisement I'll see you get a healthy dose of both. Now, you are the master's new chamber slave. In addition to regular labour you will attend to him in his chamber – that's why you may see nothing and speak nothing. He won't put up with slowness and clumsiness, so you'll need to learn to be swift and capable. Now. Come with me. You won't start proper duties until tomorrow, but you may as well be useful now.'

Spock blinked. He was starving and exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to sit down with something to eat and then be allowed to sleep. But it was obvious that was not an option. He opened his mouth slightly, reaching out with a hand to ask for guidance, but the man simply stepped away from him.

'No, none of that. You'll follow me at my pace without touching me, with your hands at your sides. You're an intelligent man. Work it out.'

Spock dropped his hand as the man began to walk away, quickly focussing his attention on the noise of his footsteps and following him, trying to crush the uncertainty of walking without sight. It was illogical to believe that the man would lead him into any obstacles, so he had to trust to that fact. Perhaps he should have been refusing to cooperate, but he had the sense to see that he had very little power in his situation, and that resistance would only result in unnecessary pain. It was better to bide his time and understand his situation better before he tried to remedy it.

He was fine until they had crossed the room and passed through a long space that he assumed was a corridor. Then his foot slammed into the hard bulk of a stone step, and he found himself crashing forward onto the stairs, his chin and chest and knees slamming hard into the edges of the steps as he fell.

'Get up,' Master Robbesh said indifferently, obviously further up the steps. 'Remember where those stairs are and don't fall again.'

Spock clambered to his feet, touching a hand to his chin. A cut stung under his fingers. He could smell the sharp copper tang of blood, and feel the wetness on his fingertips.

'Now, come on, and remember the steps will end at some point. No, you don't hold onto the side rail,' he said as Spock reached out to his right. 'You don't fumble or shuffle with your feet or grope ahead of you. You walk upstairs with dignity, with your hands at your sides and your head erect.'

Spock pressed his lips together, pondering on the amount of dignity he could muster as a newly blinded, mute and captured slave with blood trickling down his chin. But there was nothing he could do about it. He simply had to remember Surak's disciplines, and stoically accept what he could not change, until such a point as he *_could*_ change it. He focussed his hearing again, listening intently to Master Robbesh's footsteps so that he knew when he had reached the final stair, and followed him into the space ahead.

He was taken into a warm room where the air tasted of hot steam and the scent of detergent swam around him. He could hear the clattering and splashing of hard things in water. It was obviously a kitchen of types – or at least a washing room, because he could smell no food.

'Over here,' his guide said. 'In front of you is a sink. To the right, dirty dishes, to the left a drying space. Wash what you find, and see that it is perfectly clean, and stack it on the drying space. When you've done that Menash will familiarise you with the laundry process, and you can clean the bed laundry.'

******

He had finished at the sink and was laboriously rubbing soapy water through a heavy sheet when someone new came into the room. Spock didn't turn, intent on trying to wash the material thoroughly enough that he could be sure it was clean without seeing it. It was back-breaking work, and he wanted to be sure that he did not have to repeat it unnecessarily. Menash, the servant who had been set to watch over him, seemed to have the same attitude towards imperfection as Master Robbesh had shown, but with a greater tendency to correct him with blows rather than words. The best way to appease the man seemed to be to stay concentrated on nothing but his task until he was instructed otherwise.

'Hey, respect for the Master,' Menash said sharply, cuffing him about the shoulder.

Spock dropped the sheet back into the water and turned slowly. He was sure that this was not Master Robbesh who had entered the room. The footfall had been much heavier, the breathing a little more laboured. Perhaps this was his new owner. He hated to use the term, but maybe he would have to get used to it.

'Ah, this is the new boy,' a man said casually. 'Robbesh said he'd netted me the chamber slave I wanted. How's he shaping up?'

'He's got a lot of learning to do, sir,' Menash said.

'I'm sure,' the man said, coming across the room to stand in front of Spock.

He seemed like a big man, taking up a large amount of space with his body. Spock wasn't sure if he was overweight or just large, but there was something about his voice that indicated the former. He sounded relatively young, and smelt of aftershave and a faint scent of sweat. He had a vague feeling that he may have seen a man like that, with a voice like that, in the crowd on the starbase, but he couldn't be sure.

'Learn fast,' the man said in a hard voice. 'You're no use to me until then.'

Spock stood silently, and without warning a hand slapped at the side of his head.

'You can't speak, boy, but you can at least nod. Show respect, or you'll suffer for it.'

Spock nodded slowly, dropping his head slightly. There was no point in doing anything else. He felt indefinably threatened by this man. He didn't know why, but he knew that he didn't like the smoothness of his voice, or the way his breath smelt of a mixture of strongly flavoured food and some variety of breath freshener, or how he positioned himself just enough inside Spock's personal space to make him feel uncomfortable.

'Send him to my chambers in ten minutes,' the man said. 'I'd like to see how he fits in there.'

'Of course, sir,' Menash said. He waited for the man to leave, then said sharply, 'No one said you could stop working, boy. I'll tell you when it's time to stop.'

******

Spock gained a small and illogical degree of pleasure when Menash took him from his work and walked with him to his master's rooms two minutes short of the stipulated ten minutes, telling him to wait silently outside until he was called. He could not see, but he could at least count time with more accuracy than this man. Obviously punctuality was not something practised by their master either, because it was another eight minutes before the door opened.

'Come and stand over here in the light,' the man said without preamble, turning back into the room.

Spock followed him cautiously, trying to avoid any kind of collision. The wood of the floor outside had changed to thick-piled carpet as soon as he had entered the room, and the place smelt of aftershave and other artificial scents.

'Stop there,' his master said, and Spock stopped immediately where he was on the carpet. He had no visual sense of the light the man had spoken of, but the air was a little warmer where he stood, as if under a direct beam.

'Go on, strip off,' the man said. 'I want to see what I've bought.'

Spock hesitated, and the man continued languidly, 'Either you do it voluntarily, or I call six men in here who will hold you while I do it for you – and then I have you beaten for disobeying an order. Do you understand?'

Spock nodded slowly, reaching his hands to his top and removing it, before folding it and putting it on the floor beside him. Then he undid the kilt and folded it in the same way, trying to ignore the fact that he was totally naked in front of a man he could not see. The man came forward, making a sound of approval. Then he placed his flat palm on Spock's belly, feeling the musculature there.

'I wasn't sure that Vulcans were anatomically compatible with our type,' he said, stroking across Spock's skin with his fingers. 'I see that they are.'

Spock tensed, trying to resist the urge to take his hand and push it away. It was just a little too close to the place below his navel where dark curls of hair began.

'Oh, calm down,' the man said disdainfully. 'I'm not going to bend you over a chair right now and take you – I've got women enough for that at the moment. I only use my slaves when I have no guests in the house for my pleasure. But I acquired you, and I want to see what I own. Turn around. Let me see all of you.'

Spock rotated slowly, resisting any reaction to the man's hands all over him, probing at his thighs and back and chest. He would have to bear this intrusion. There was nothing else he could do. At least the man was restraining himself from touching anything more private.

'Well, you look useful enough,' the man said finally. 'And I wouldn't kick you out of bed. I do hate to have unattractive chamber slaves – they put me off. Put your clothes back on and get me a drink.'

Spock bent quickly to pick up his clothes, trying to keep his feelings of deep discomfort from reaching his face.

'So, did they bother to get your name before they muted you?' his master asked carelessly as he dressed.

Spock shook his head, fumbling with the catch on his kilt.

'I'm guessing it starts with 's' and ends in 'k', since you're Vulcan?'

Spock nodded.

'Well then, I'll call you Sarkesh,' he said. 'That'll do.'

Spock nodded again. The name had no meaning as a Vulcan one, except perhaps as being similar to a word for a particularly hard-rinded vegetable, but he had little choice. He carefully oriented his top and pulled it on, feeling some small measure of relief at being dressed again.

'Go on – get me that drink. I'll have a glass of the *_liarf*_. Oh, I do *_hate*_ breaking in new chamber slaves,' he said petulantly as Spock hesitated. 'The cabinet's on the other side of the room. Turn ninety degrees to your right and it's straight ahead. Glasses are on the shelf in the cupboard beneath. The *_liarf*_ is in the tall decanter with the tear-drop stopper.'

Spock turned to his right, trying to walk across the room with a swift, sure pace until he felt the tell-tale air currents of something solid in front of him. His short time in the washing room had at least taught him to sense the way the air changed about obstacles like tables or cabinets or lines of drying washing. He had the developing bruises to remind him of what happened when he dropped his awareness.

He reached out a hand to feel a cabinet made of silky smooth wood, and crouched to open the doors. It took a moment to work out that they slid open, then he reached inside carefully and found a glass. Next he reached out to the bottles on top of the cabinet, feeling carefully until he found the one that the man had described. He poured the drink with great care, hooking the tip of his finger over the edge to feel when it was full. Then he turned and took it over to his master.

The man took it briefly, then pushed it back into his hand. 'This isn't the *_liarf*_. Smell it. It's the *_liarn*_. The *_liarf*_ is in a taller decanter. And the glass is not correct for *_liarf*_. It should be in a short square one. And next time don't get your filthy fingers in it. I'm not going to drink something that you've been washing in. Put it on the tray at the side of the cabinet, and get me what I wanted. I'll notch the waste of liquor down on your punishment sheet.'

Spock returned silently to the cabinet, taking extra care to find the correct glass and the correct decanter. He turned slightly towards his master, waiting for a sign of approval, but he received none, so he turned his attention back to the glass, pouring the liquid in slowly and trying to estimate when it was nearing the top. Then he took it back to the man and offered it to him silently.

'Better,' his master said grudgingly, taking the glass from him. 'You haven't filled it full enough, but no doubt if I send you back to do that you'll spill it everywhere. You're hardly any use to me yet. I'll see your seven-master gives you more training. I'll be out tomorrow, so someone can show you about this room and brief you in your duties. Now, go and stand in readiness by the door.'

Spock nodded in acknowledgement and moved over to the door, taking up a relaxed but alert stance with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He did not find his position as a slave pleasant, but this, at least, was far from arduous. Perhaps if he was ignored long enough he could take the opportunity to meditate, to calm his feelings of frustration and fear at his situation and his sudden disability.

He had stood motionless in silence for over an hour before his master spoke to him again. He had been moving about the room on and off, but Spock had little idea of what he had been doing. Presumably it was simply his habit to go about his daily tasks as if there was no one else in the room. Finally, though, the man came over to him and stood in front of him. Spock could feel his scrutiny on his face despite not being able to see. It surprised him just how much he could pick up without the use of his eyes, especially when a complete lack of assistance forced him to work out ways of helping himself.

He stood waiting for the man to speak.

'You've got a good bearing there,' the man said finally. 'What's your history? Military?'

Spock shook his head. Technically, the _Enterprise_ was not a military vessel.

'No, your lot are peace lovers, aren't they?' he said, coming across the room to him. He took Spock's chin in his hand, turning his head to the left and right. Spock stayed motionless, keeping his head relaxed and unresistant to the man's touch. It did not seem sensible to provoke his anger in his position. 'Where have you been taught to stand like that, then? I suppose it's just your way. I always wanted a Vulcan for my chamber slave. Efficient, capable – you'll be very useful.'

Spock nodded minutely. He did not want to be useful. If he thought he would gain anything he would be as useless as possible, but he suspected that he would earn nothing but pain, and despite his disciplines he was not a masochist.

'Go on. Go back to your seven,' the man said finally, pushing his head aside as he let go. 'I'll have a guest in my rooms late tomorrow evening. I'll expect you to be completely cognisant with your duties by then. Any accidents, any clumsiness or mistakes, and you be severely punished. Do you understand me?'

Spock nodded.

'If the lady leaves before I get what I need you'll have to provide her service to me. A man can be just as satisfying as a woman – or perhaps more so,' he said ominously, touching his hand to Spock's buttock with a menacing air of possession.

Spock dropped his head slightly. He did not want to think of the implications of that statement.

'Go on, get out,' the man said.

Spock didn't wait to be told again. He slipped out through the door, then stood for a moment in the corridor trying to remember his route back to the room where his bed lay.


	3. Chapter 2

2.

It took Spock over half an hour to find his way back from the wood-floored corridor to the room where he was to sleep. Despite the fact that there were still people around he gained help from no one, and was forced to concentrate intently on the scents and sounds and feelings of his surroundings to recognise the antechamber where he had been blinded. Once there, he hesitated, trying to orient himself and remember where the doorway was to the room that contained his sleeping mat. He could not even be absolutely certain if he had found his way to the right chamber. He didn't know how many rooms of this type there were in the building.

Spock had been standing in the antechamber for just over a minute when someone entered the room, muttering, 'Been sent to see you go in. You took your time, didn't you?'

Spock straightened his spine, raising an eyebrow in mild chagrin. Perhaps if the man had helped him find his way it would not have taken so long.

'There, in front of you,' the man said impatiently, pushing him forward. 'I'm not standing here another half hour while you turn about yourself in circles.'

Spock stepped through the doorway, touching a hand to the doorframe to orient himself, feeling the tingle of a forcefield that he presumed was one way touching his skin as he moved through. He realised as he entered that the room was no longer empty – he could smell the scents and feel the presence of more than one person. There was a general stir and an air of curiosity as he entered, and he heard people getting to their feet.

'You're the new chamber slave?' a man asked, coming over to him. There was a moment of scrutiny. 'Well, at least they left you intact,' he said, lifting his kilt casually to look underneath.

Spock stepped backwards instantly, snatching his clothing away from the man's hand.

'Hey, don't be so coy,' he said. 'You're a slave. You're not permitted modesty.'

Spock raised an eyebrow mutely. It was supremely frustrating not being able to talk.

'Come on. Let's have a proper look at you,' he said, moving closer again. 'It's not often we get a new one in here – specially not a Vulcan.'

Spock stepped backwards again. He could feel the others in the room gathering about him, all piqued with curiosity. He was beginning to understand his position here – he was not only beneath all of the free people in the household, but as a new slave he would also be at the bottom of the pile as far as his peers were concerned – unless he acted now.

The man's hands took hold of his tunic and forearm, as if to begin stripping his tunic off. In an instant Spock grabbed hold of the man's wrists, holding them perfectly immobile as he tried to release himself, proving that he was strong enough to be a formidable challenge. He pushed downwards, forcing the man irrevocably to his knees. He held him like that for a few moments, then let go, and turned to go to the corner where his bed lay, pushing past the others in the room as if they were not there.

There was a long moment of silence as he sat. He could feel that the atmosphere in the room had changed to one of silent awe. Then someone came and sat near him. He could tell it was the same man who had tried to remove his clothes. It was surprisingly easy to distinguish even people he had only known for a few minutes by their scent and way of moving, and the mental emanations that hung about them like a cloud. There was no problem in dropping his shields here – he had sensed no one of any telepathic ability, and the amount he gained from the awareness of people's personalities and moods was priceless.

'So,' the man said. 'You're strong. Anything else we should know about you?'

Spock turned his head towards him. Now that the initial test was over there seemed to be nothing left in the man's intentions but curiosity and a desire for friendship. He touched a hand to his mouth, and shook his head.

'Yeah, I know you're mute,' the man said. 'You're a slave to the bedchamber – they all are.'

Spock raised an eyebrow. He pointed to himself, then tried to indicate the desire to ask a question, miming counting on his fingers. There was moment of puzzlement, then the man said, 'How many bedchamber slaves are there?'

Spock nodded.

'I don't know – four or five. You'll be the highest though, being slave to the high Master. They only put one in each seven – don't want too many blind fumbling about in one room, do you?' he said with a laugh.

Spock dropped his head minutely.

'All right, sorry. I guess it's not been long enough for you to be used to it yet.'

He shook his head, raising one finger to indicate one day.

'You'll find it hard – but you'll adapt,' the man said reassuringly. 'I've not seen one here yet that hasn't. We can help you in here, in this room – but you won't get help outside. It's not allowed unless you really need it.'

Spock nodded in acknowledgement. He touched his fingers to the sleek metal band about his left wrist. It was perfectly smooth, with no apparent join now it had been fixed about his arm.

'That's your identity cuff,' the man said. 'It's got a chip in it that says what you are and who you belong to. Master had a couple of escape attempts a few years back so he slapped these on all of us. It'll set off all manner of alarms if you go where you're not meant to go or try to leave the perimeter. Got a powerful charge in it too if they need to knock you out.'

Spock nodded, touching the band again. It was far too small to even consider trying to slip his hand out through it. He wondered what would happen if he attempted to sever it with something, but in his condition he could not even be sure what material it was made of.

'Oh, it links in with the door too,' the man continued. 'You can come in through the forcefield anytime, but you can only go out at letting out times, or if someone outside puts the code in.'

Spock nodded, then sighed in frustration. There were so many questions he wanted to resolve, and it was impossible to ask without the power of speech.

'Want to talk?' the man asked sympathetically, and he nodded. 'Well, what might you want to know?' he mused. 'I'm Lamesh – I'm a general outdoor labourer here, so I guess you'll be spending some time alongside me. They usually put the blind ones to physical work for part of the day. There's five more of us in here – Robash, Delash, Salensh, Andresh and Valensh.'

Spock nodded as there was a general movement in the room, the five other men coming up to him and speaking their names and touching his hand lightly in a form of handshake. He focused on each one as they spoke, committing the bundle of sensory impressions to his mind to help him recognise each one in future.

'Each group of slaves is a seven, and we're the second seven,' Lamesh continued. 'Below Lord Milaresh, we answer to Master Robbesh. He's – generally fair – but he's a hard one. If you need punishing, he won't stint, and he tends to be hard on weakness, so you're not coming from the best place, being blind and mute. It's Lord Milaresh you want to watch – that's our owner, the one whose bedchamber you're assigned to. He – is *_not*_ fair – and his punishments can be vicious.'

'Yeah, I was on the end of one of those last week,' a rough voice put in in an aggrieved tone. Salensh, Spock thought, from the distinctive timbre of the voice.

He lifted his head, trying to work out how to ask what the punishments involved, but he could not think of a way. Perhaps it was best not to know in advance.

'Now, let me think,' Lamesh muttered. 'You'll want to know your duties… We're not *_too*_ badly treated, considering, but you'll have to work hard. The bell wakes you at dawn. We eat out in the common room out there – it's a filling meal, but it's not good. Then you'll probably have to work for five, six hours. I guess since you're a chamber attendant you'll be let off then, and you'll probably have dinner early with the rest of the chamber slaves. Of course, you attend your master at all meals but breakfast, whether he eats in public or in his room. Then – you work in your master's or mistress's chamber, and I couldn't tell you what you do, because all chamber slaves are mute, so they can't talk about what goes on, and blind so as they don't see what goes on. All I can say is, it's a shame for you you're not slave to a lady, because then you'd be getting something we all miss out on. But anyway, when you're not working you're locked in this room, and you have to entertain yourself as you see fit.'

Spock touched a hand to his eyes, trying to indicate another question.

'Yes, so you can't see their little indulgences,' the man said.

Spock shook his head, touching his eyes again, and then his throat, and then moving his hand sideways to try to indicate a passage of time.

'I don't understand,' the man, sounding almost as frustrated as Spock felt. 'Hey, Delash,' he said, his voice turning away. 'You've got good at this game. Do you get it?'

'Er,' another voice said, moving closer. 'Show me,' he said, and Spock repeated the gesture, trying to keep the frustration out of his movements. 'Um – distance? Time?'

Spock nodded his head swiftly.

'Time?'

He nodded again.

'Time, and your eyes… How long does it last? It's permanent. It doesn't wear off.'

Spock dropped his head. That information had gone without saying to him. It wasn't what he had wanted to ask. He tried another gesture, pointing backwards over his shoulder.

'Back? Backwards? Reverse?' Delash asked suddenly. 'Can it be reversed – cured?'

Spock nodded.

'I don't know. They don't tend to pull people out of bed-chamber service. Too many things they could tell, if they could speak.'

Spock mimed writing, and the man laughed.

'Well, you could write, if they gave us such luxuries as pen and paper. But I'm guessing universal translators don't work on script, so you'd be penning gibberish to us. Anyway, it's not likely they'll let you have paper to record all of our lord's little intimacies.'

Spock pressed his lips together, leaning back against the wall.

'I suppose you're tired,' Lamesh said from beside him.

Spock nodded. He was oppressed by his situation, but he also felt physically exhausted from lack of food and from being held, drugged, in that metal drawer for a week.

'Well, just remember when you sleep – you don't sleep in your day clothes – you'll be punished. You have to take them off and fold them and put them in your slot up on the wall.'

Spock raised an eyebrow. He touched the collar of his top and mimed sleeping, hoping he would be understood.

'No, you don't have night clothes,' Delash told him. 'No need. It's warm enough in here, isn't it?'

Spock cocked his head to the side, then shrugged. It wasn't *_cold*_ in the room, but it was colder than was suited to his Vulcan temperature.

'I suppose you like it warmer,' Lamesh said, touching a hand to Spock's arm to feel his temperature. 'I've heard your planet's like a forge. Well, if you get chilly you can always bunk up with one of us.'

Spock pressed his lips together. The people in the room seemed friendly enough, but he had little desire to test that friendship by lying in contact with their flesh all night, subject to all of the unshielded emotions and thoughts he would sense through the touch. His exhaustion from the journey would help him sleep.

******

He was woken by the red alert siren, and he was half way across the room reaching out for his clothes before he remembered that he was not on the ship and he couldn't see and he couldn't speak. The word *_Captain* _was forming in his throat as he stopped dead in the middle of the room, trying to control his instinctive reaction to the sound coupled with the odd dreams he had been experiencing.

'Hey,' someone said, and he spun towards the voice. 'Hey, it's just the wake-up alarm,' the man said, moving towards him.

Spock took in a deep breath, composing his face back to neutrality.

'It's Salensh,' the man said, forestalling the question he wanted to ask. 'Come on. You need to get washed and dressed. We don't have a lot of time before breakfast.'

Spock nodded reluctantly. He felt like he needed more time to reconcile himself to how his life had changed – specifically, to the fact that he could not see – but obviously that was a luxury he was not allowed.

'Del, you help him,' Salensh said over Spock's shoulder. 'You can understand him.'

Delash came across the room and touched Spock's arm. 'Come on,' he said, nudging him across the room. 'I should have shown you this last night,' he said apologetically. 'I didn't think. This is our glorious bathroom,' he said with gentle sarcasm.

Spock raised an eyebrow, reaching out ahead of himself to feel the doorframe as they went through it. As far as he could tell, it was just an open doorway, with no door to give privacy from the other room.

'There's a hand-basin here,' he said, taking Spock's hand and moving it to what felt like a metal basin with one stubby tap. 'There's a shelf just up here with a shaver for your beard,' he said, moving Spock's hand again. 'Master'll want you cleanly shaven. And there's a toilet just here on your left,' he said, turning Spock around. He accepted the manhandling as a necessary unpleasantness. 'Paper in the dispenser here, and the flush is just there on the wall,' he said, guiding Spock's hand first to a metal dispenser and then to a small button. Spock raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had been almost expecting a hole in a plank.

'Then this is the shower,' Delash said, leading Spock toward the back of the tiny room. 'Everything gets a bit wet of a morning, but it soon dries. We've got a towel here,' he said, moving Spock's hand to a rough cloth hanging on the wall. 'It's best to put it on the toilet when you shower or it'll get wet. Course, it gets wet enough anyway with seven of us using it,' he said, sounding as if he was smiling.

Spock nodded, turning as if to leave the room.

'Come on, step in,' Delash said firmly. 'You have to shower every morning – and *_you'll*_ have to shower again before your chamber duty. You'll be lashed if you're not clean. We have to take it in pairs in the morning – and one three of course. There's no time for anything else.'

Spock pressed his lips together. Living in such close confines with six other men was one thing, but he had little desire to share a shower with them.

'Come on,' Delash told him again, thrusting a cloth into his hands. 'The button's here on the wall. It's just on and off. There's no temperature settings.'

Spock gasped as suddenly he was drenched in water that was far too cold for his liking. There was something deeply unpleasant about standing blind in a spray of water that deafened all other sound from his ears. But he had to give in to the logic of the situation. He had to wash, and it did not matter that he couldn't hear – there was nothing here to harm him. He washed swiftly, rubbing the cloth over his body, then took the towel that Delash gallantly offered him first, trying to rub warmth back into his limbs.

'Come on – clothes,' Delash said, leading him back into the main room as the shower sprung into life again for two more occupants. 'I know I should let you do it, but there isn't time. Here,' he said, thrusting Spock's clothes into his hands. 'That's your field-work clothes,' he said as Spock noticed the roughness of the fabric. 'The other ones are for chamber duty – you have to keep them clean.'

Within a few minutes Spock found himself wearing some kind of knee length, short-sleeved smock and following Delash down a long corridor. They turned into a room that sounded like a moderately large canteen. He tried to ignore the low murmur of voices and clattering of dishes and followed Delash's footsteps, keeping his hands carefully at his sides.

'Here,' Delash said, stopping at the end of the room. 'Bowls and spoons are here. You fill your bowl up – it takes two ladles – from the vat here, fill up your cup with water, then come and sit down. Careful, though – the vat's hot.'

Spock reached out in front of himself, finding the stack of metal bowls and then the vat with Delash's verbal assistance and carefully scooping two ladles full into his bowl, then filling his metal cup from a small tap, and following him to a clear space at the table.

'We all sit in our sevens,' Delash explained as they sat. 'There are six tables, and ours is the second.'

Spock nodded, aware of the rest of the seven joining them as he dipped his spoon into his bowl.

'Don't spill it,' Salensh said quickly from his left. 'Don't get your clothes dirty, don't get the table dirty. The overseer's watching you for mistakes – and he's the type who wants you to make one just so he can lord his power over you. He likes to pick on the blind ones.'

Spock lifted his head briefly, wondering where, and who, the overseer was. He didn't have to wonder long, though, because someone sauntered over and said, 'Ah, your first meal without your eyes. This should be interesting.'

Spock pressed his lips together, recognising the voice of the overbearing servant Menash who had overseen his work in the washing room last night. The man seemed to take a sadistic pleasure in waiting for some act of clumsiness and then cuffing him about the head with the side of his hand. He had little intention of provoking such behaviour this morning.

He took a spoonful of his breakfast, judging the viscosity by stirring it a little. He meticulously wiped the bottom of the spoon on the edge of the bowl and lifted it to his lips with great care. His room-mates had been right – it did seem filling, but it did not taste good at all. It seemed to be a highly starchy porridge that stuck to the inside of his mouth and tasted of nothing definable. At least its viscosity made it harder to spill though, and he gained a small amount of satisfaction from the fact that he gave the overseer no reason to punish him, much to the man's apparent annoyance.

'Just because he's a free servant – and an overseer at that – he thinks he's one step away from a Lord,' Salensh muttered as they returned their bowls to the side of the room. 'He'll take any chance to show his power – specially over those that can't talk back, like you.'

'He's a house-servant, not field, though,' Delash put in. 'So at least *_you*_ won't have to work under him day by day.'

Spock nodded, then touched his hand to Delash's arm, trying to indicate a question.

'Oh, I work under him all right,' Delash said with feeling. 'Every mark on my body's a result of working under him.'

'Sardesh is handy with his crop though,' Lamesh said from behind him. 'Look at this he did yesterday when I was slow to target.'

Spock turned, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

'Oh, a bruise on my thigh,' Lamesh explained. 'He's not as handy with his tongue as Menash, but he's well practised at hitting you just right to make you hurt as much as possible. And speaking of that, if I don't get you outside on time he'll be making both of us hurt. You finished?'

Spock scraped the spoon on the bottom of the bowl, trying to judge how much was left.

'That's it,' Lamesh told him covertly. 'Barely a spoonful.'

Spock nodded, lifting the spoon to his lips. It was logical to make the most of his nourishment, even if it was unpleasant. Then he followed Lamesh to deposit his metal bowl and cup in a box at the side of the room, and then on to outside. He hesitated as they stepped out of the door into the slight breeze of outside. The earthy ground was suddenly uneven and unpredictable under his feet, and he could feel the openness around him. There were no walls and corridors here to help him find his way.

'Yeah, it hits them all like that,' Lamesh told him. 'But you'll get to know it. Listen – you can hear trees over on your left, can't you? And there's a river off to the right, and you can hear work going on in the workshops and barns.'

Spock nodded, tilting his ear towards the different sounds as much to show Lamesh that he appreciated the reassurance as to identify them himself. He could hear far more than Lamesh had mentioned. There was a dull, repetitive thud from a distance away, like some kind of machinery working. There were bird-like sounds chiming all about him, and the occasional sharp clap-clap-clap of something winged taking flight. There were animals, and the murmur of humanoid voices. Apart from the noise of machinery, the place sounded quite rural.

He traced a foot experimentally over the earth, then pointed to the ground and made an up and down movement with his hand to sign the unevenness of it.

'It's not too bad,' Lamesh reassured him. 'I'll tell you if there's anything you need to know about, and you'll get to learn where you can walk. Come on – you need to get on the wagon with me. We're working right over on the other side of the estate in the mines, so they cart us over there.'

Spock paused, turning to him questioningly.

'Argium mines,' Lamesh explained. 'There's mineral deposits there that stop machinery from working – that's why they use us. You won't be digging the stuff out, though – need to see for that. You'll probably be pulling the carts – they run on rails, so all you have to do is pull the full ones out and the empty ones back in again.'

Spock nodded, digesting that information. It seemed that he would be working as little more than a draught horse.

'Come on,' Lamesh told him, touching his arm briefly. 'Keep walking.'

Spock began to follow the sound of Lamesh walking again, but bare feet on dry earth were much harder to hear than on stone or floorboards. It was like trying to follow someone on the carpeted floors of the upper house, but without the reassurance of walls either side to guide him.

'So, this is the new one,' a man's voice said as they approached a group of people. 'You'll have to pick up your pace, boy. Come on, get on the cart.'

Spock flinched more in surprise than in pain as a crop hit the back of his arm.

'Sardesh,' Lamesh muttered in his ear. 'Told you he was handy with that.'

Spock moved forward, surrounded by emotional impressions – anger from Lamesh, impatience from Sardesh the overseer, and curiosity from everyone else. His shins touched a low obstacle in front of him, and he bent to feel a dusty metal surface.

'That's it,' Lamesh murmured from beside him. 'Get up and follow me to the front so you can hold on. It's a bumpy ride.'

'So, has this one got a name?' Sardesh asked, prodding Spock with his stick to make him move forward more quickly.

'Not yet, sir,' Lamesh said as Spock climbed aboard. 'We're waiting on that.'

'Vulcan. He'll be strong then, at least, and quick to learn. Go on, boy,' he said, snapping the switch across the back of Spock's legs again. 'Move forward – make some room.'

Spock soon found himself pressed against the front of the cart by a jostling crowd of other men, with Lamesh close beside him.

'Take hold of the rail,' Lamesh told him, taking his hand quickly and putting it to a metal rail at chest height. 'Just keep hold while we're moving and you'll be fine.'

As he grasped at the rail with both hands the platform he was on lurched suddenly and began to move. He presumed they were moving forward at a reasonable pace – but without sight it was curiously hard to judge how fast or in which direction. His attention was soon taken up by the others on the cart, however, as curious bodies crowded around him.

'So, this is Master's new fuck-slave,' one of them said, pulling at Spock's sleeve.

'Great, another cripple to watch for,' another one complained.

'Do you bend over nicely when you're asked?' the first one jibed. 'Do you enjoy it when he slips it in?'

Spock pressed his lips together, trying to ignore the taunting. The fact of their jeering did not bother him so much – it was the implications of what they were saying that disturbed him. His position was already unpleasant enough, but the threat of being used as some kind of sexual slave by the disagreeable man who held him here was something that filled him with cold dread.

'Hey, lads, leave him alone,' Lamesh protested. 'Come on, have some pity – he's only been crippled a day. That could be any one of you if the master took a fancy to you.'

There was a moment of silence. Spock could feel that suggestion rippling through their minds, but he knew that such taunting often stemmed from fear of suffering what the object of the ridicule was suffering. The general emotions in the air became a little less threatening, but a few simply became more intense. Then someone put their hand on his back, pulling at his clothes again. Spock tightened his grip on the bar. He couldn't let go while the cart was moving.

'Come on, let's see what we've got,' the man said, hitching his tunic up to his armpits. 'Turn around.'

Spock had no intention of turning, but hands grabbed at his and uncurled his fingers, forcing him to rotate to face the others. Suddenly the hands were all over him, poking at him, feeling his muscles, slipping between his legs.

'Hey, stop it, leave off him!' Lamesh snapped. 'No, don't,' he said quickly in a different tone, as Spock raised his hands against their grip to defend himself. 'You get caught fighting and you'll be whipped half unconscious. It's not worth it.'

Spock paused a moment, then forcefully removed the hands from his arms, holding them just tightly enough for a moment to show his strength. There was a curse from one of the men, and suddenly there was a little more space around him, and his smock had fallen back to cover his body. He staggered as the cart went over another bump, but hands that he decided must be Lamesh's grabbed hold of him and steadied him as he turned back to the rail.

'Best you just keep a low profile,' Lamesh murmured in his ear. 'You stick out, and they'll pick on any thing they get.'

When the cart finally stopped Spock found himself surrounded by a confusion of people and thumping noise. Lamesh waited just long enough to see him off the cart and to murmur an apology to him before disappearing to his own enforced duties. Spock stood stock still on the uneven ground, waiting for some kind of direction, being jostled by the movement of men either side of him. He got the sense of being in a narrow area, perhaps outside but fenced, because although there were no echoes and plenty of fresh air the men around him were obviously corralled into a small space. The scents of dust and sweat were thick in the air. Somewhere ahead of him was a tangled noise of pounding and grinding, metal on metal and metal grating on stone, and low rumblings like some kind of engines constantly working.

'All right, boy, over here,' came the voice of Sardesh, and a rough hand grabbed at his upper arm. It was the first time anyone in charge here had come close to guiding him, but he thought it would have been preferable to be left to manage alone as the man pulled him swiftly across ground strewn with rocks and potholes. He ignored the stubbed toes and knocked ankles, trying to concentrate instead on the feel of his surroundings as the breeze became more muted and the sounds about him seemed contained by solid walls. The pulsing and banging and roaring sound increased to a level where it began to drown out individual voices, despite the fact that most were shouting.

'Here,' Sardesh shouted roughly, pushing him over what felt like a metal rail embedded in the ground. Spock stood still as hands buckled what seemed to be a circular harness about his chest, and then he heard rattling chains being fixed to the sides of the harness and to something else behind him. This was the first indisputable sign of his bondage, and he couldn't say that he liked it.

'Right,' Sardesh shouted, so close to his ear his could feel his hot breath and the occasional touch of a beard. 'You turn around and push the wagon into the mine all the way to the buffers. You wait there for the order to move, and then you turn back and pull it out to the end here. You wait for the load to be emptied, then you turn round again and repeat. You keep doing that until you're told to stop. You don't decide to have a sit-down half way through, or stop to socialise, or pull it out before it's fully loaded. If you do, you get *_this*,_' he said, bringing his crop down sharply across Spock's back. Spock's back muscles tensed, but he kept any expression of pain from his face. 'Don't even think of disobeying, or refusing to work, or I'll beat you so hard you won't know if you're alive or dead, and then set you back in harness. Now, if you need a piss you piss as you walk. Anything else you hold onto until you're unlocked at the end of shift. Do you understand?'

Spock nodded silently. There was little to understand.

'All right, go on, then. If you're slow to target I'll have to beat speed into you.'

Spock pressed his lips together, turning round in the cumbersome harness and reaching out for the wagon before him. He felt even more blind with the confusion of sound in his ears. He found the end of it after a moment – it was a metal panel that rose up to his chest height, with a turned over edge that was split and damaged with use. The wagon only took a light push to send it rumbling forward along the rails, and he felt wooden sleepers under his feet as he followed it, holding onto the edge with his hands, letting the rails guide him. The place smelt as if not everyone waited until the end of shift to relieve themselves, and the scent of stale urine was overpowering. As the track became steeper his task grew in difficulty, as he had to struggle to stop the cart from running away from him and dragging him along the rails behind it.

Then finally, where the noise was at its most intense, he suddenly found his downward progress impeded by something solid, and he stopped, grateful at the chance to rest despite the cacophonous noise that blurred everything else out from his ears.

A hand hit at his arm, and he started, turning towards the noise of someone speaking. He caught the words, '…you all right?' and he nodded, recognising Lamesh's voice. He touched a hand to his ear, trying to show an expression of distaste on his usually expressionless face.

'Yeah, helps if you can see people's lips down here,' Lamesh shouted into his ear. 'Listen. I can't stop and talk. Just need to tell you, when the cart's full the last person'll tap you on the shoulder. Then you pull it out. Don't take it til then. Okay?'

Spock nodded silently.

'I know, it's not good down here. Just stick to doing what you're told, and try not to breathe in the dust. Day'll be over before you know it.'


	4. Chapter 3

3.

Spock learned very quickly that outside the slave room no one was allowed to help him in his blindness, and that cautiousness of movement was tolerated by none of the free men, and only a handful of the other slaves. The theory was that he would learn faster that way, and perhaps it was true. His limbs and head were studded with varied bruises from walking into things and falling over, and from being hit for clumsiness, but he was learning very swiftly exactly where furniture stood, where overhanging obstacles were in his path, where steps and uneven flagstones lay.

His worst accident yet had occurred when he had walked into a side table containing a kettle of an almost boiling drink, but the burns down his left thigh were healing slowly, and he had learnt to be hyper alert for the changes in temperature in the air around him that indicated similar dangers. He had been beaten for spilling the drink, but he was growing used to physical punishment, and learning to avoid it. He had also begun to improvise a few small signs to allow him to communicate with the other slaves in his seven – lifting a hand to his mouth to ask for food, mimicking drinking from a cup, or giving an exaggerated shrug when he was not sure where something was.

He had been there two weeks before he felt familiar enough with his seven to let his barriers down further. When he had suffered the burn on his thigh, it had been Delash who had taken it upon himself to check the wound daily, and apply the shower cloth soaked in cold water to take some of the pain from his skin. During the frequent physical contact that this occasioned, he had been able to sense the man's open desire for friendship, and he thought it might be possible to risk a meld with him. He had been spending a frustrating hour this evening sitting on his bed-mat with Delash, trying to communicate with him and to learn the signs that Delash knew to teach him. Finally he took a deep breath, and raised his hand tentatively towards the man's face, waiting for him to object.

'What do you want to do?' Delash asked curiously, as Spock stopped with his fingers just centimetres away, a questioning look on his face. 'You want to feel my face?'

Spock shook his head. He moved his fingers a little closer. It was unethical to instigate a mind meld without permission, but there was no way to mime the question. He touched the man's cheek very lightly, feeling a beard and the roughness of a face in middle age. Then he closed his own eyes, and let his barriers down fully, reaching out carefully to the man's thoughts.

Delash recoiled, uttering a curse. Spock dropped his hand swiftly, trying to look apologetic.

'No, it's all right,' the man said quickly. 'But – ye gods, I didn't even know you could do that. Don't ever let *_them*_ know you can do that.'

Spock shook his head quickly, then raised his hand again questioningly.

'What can he do?' Valensh asked curiously. Spock could feel curiosity all around him.

'He's a telepath. Go on,' the man said to Spock. 'Now I know, it's all right.'

Spock touched his face again, reaching a little deeper until he was at the point that he could make his mental voice heard. _I am Spock_, he said. An improper relief flooded over him at his first chance to *_really*_ communicate in over two weeks. Just being able to communicate his own name was wonderful.

'Spockesh,' the man said out loud, careful not to nod and dislodge Spock's fingers. 'That's his name, lads,' he said aside. 'Good to know, Spockesh. And you're – ' He stopped, his concentration increasing, and Spock could feel him reaching out after facts that he could just sense in the top layers of Spock's mind. _Good Gods, you're Starfleet,_ he said internally. _No wonder they made you mute. Wouldn't want that getting out._

_Why?_ Spock asked curiously.

_Just – too many people who'd come after you to get you out of here if they knew. They don't advertise slavery on this planet. They know the Feds'd shut it down in a second_.

_I imagine this is not a Federation planet_, Spock pointed out.

_No, but that doesn't often stop them, does it?_

Spock shrugged, mentally conceding his point. He often had reservations at his captain's seeming disregard for the Prime Directive – but in this case he could only regret that some enterprising starship captain had not come across this planet years ago, and put an end to this despicable trade.

_What planet is this?_ Spock asked. _I don't know where I am_.

He had not been able to conceal his sense of lost bewilderment from that statement, and he felt a sudden surge of sympathy from Delash.

_This is Nialash, fourth planet out from Angedar._

Spock allowed a sense of his ignorance to the surface of his mind. Presumably they were local names, and he did not know to what star or planet they corresponded. But Delash did not know any other name for the place, so he was left ignorant of his location.

_Where were you brought in from?_ Delash asked.

_I was abducted from Federation Starbase 53_.

_I don't even know where that is_, Delash admitted.

_I was in transport for over a week_, Spock said. _But it is impossible to speculate on the distance I travelled, since I don't know the speed of the ship I was on._

He let an image of his captivity on the ship drift to the surface of his mind. Delash did not respond directly, but Spock could feel his horror and sympathy at what he had suffered, and he tried hard to suppress his own emotional reaction to the memory.

_Is there any way of getting a message out of here?_ Spock asked, turning the subject away from that unpleasant time.

The man laughed.

_It's not like _you _can use a communications system,_ he pointed out, _and no one wants the punishment they'd get for getting caught talking to the Feds, or sending a message out to them. We couldn't get close, anyway. We'd never get left alone near a comm unit, and we don't know the codes_.

_Of course_, Spock replied, trying hard to keep his disappointment from the upper levels of his mind.

Then he heard someone external say, 'Del, watch it – the camera's getting suspicious.'

_We'd better stop_, Delash said quickly. _They've got cameras in here, and they watch us harder for a while when there's a newcomer in the seven. If they find out you can touch people's minds they might snuff out that part of you like they did your eyes and voice._

_That is true_, Spock acknowledged.

The idea of that horrified him almost more than what had already been done to him. Even without that threat, he felt intensely uncomfortable at letting this person that he had known for so short a time having such access to his thoughts and emotions, despite the benefits. He was slowly becoming friends with those in his seven – especially with the gentle and considerate Delash – but engaging in mind melds with them required a far deeper level of friendship.

_You're a private type, aren't you?_ Delash thought.

_Yes_, Spock said honestly.

He dropped his hand from the man's face before he could think twice about it. He could overcome his discomfort and carry on talking to Delash for hours, but he could not risk the punishment that they both might suffer.

'Don't worry,' Delash said aloud. 'We're not doing badly with hand signs. I know quite a few more I can teach you. I've been talking to your type for years.'

Spock relaxed a little, content just in the knowledge of this man's friendship.

'For a start,' Delash said, touching Spock's hand, flattening it out and touching it briefly to Spock's own chest. 'That's how you can say thank you. You wanted to say thank you, didn't you? I can see it in you.'

Spock nodded, signing, *_Thank you,*_ hoping that he was putting a visible amount of gratitude into the sign.

******

The first two months felt like two years of captivity. It soon became evident that there were no days or evenings off in his position – there was nothing but endless, revolving routine. He woke every morning, showered, ate breakfast, and was transported to the mine, where he wheeled the empty cart down to the end of the rails and pulled it out when full. His feet became hard from walking every day over the rough ground, and he grew used to the constant feeling of bruising in his toes and the soles of his feet from unexpected stones and other obstacles in his path on the mine rails.

He worked for a set number of hours in the day, then was transported back to the house to eat an early dinner. Then he spent a free hour in the slave room being sure that he was clean and presentable, softening his hands with oil, shaving and attiring himself neatly for his afternoon and evening's work in his master's bedchamber. Then he went to his master's room and, if his master was absent, spent his time cleaning and tidying the room, and if he was not absent, stood unobtrusively near the door until he was called upon to perform some task.

It was this part of the day that seemed to drag far more than the rough physical labour in the mine. Simply standing in silence awaiting an order that he would instantly have to obey was far more demeaning and mind-numbing than physical work. Sometimes he was not called upon to move for hours, but he could not sink into a proper meditative state because he was required to be alert to orders.

This night, however, was not one of those quiet times. His master had arrived from dinner in a flustered state, moving past Spock and into his en suite bathroom without speaking. Then he had snapped from the bathroom, 'Come on, boy – oil, quickly,' and Spock had moved hastily into the bathroom and found the bottle of skin oil, identifiable by the shape of its angular stopper.

'Is the room presentable?' his master snapped, and Spock nodded. He had spent the hour before his master's arrival carefully feeling over every surface to be sure that all was neat, tidy and clean.

'Come on, oil,' the man said again, roughly grabbing at Spock's tunic to pull him closer.

Spock carefully poured a little oil into the palm of his hand and let it warm, before reached out to his master's chest and beginning to apply the liquid to his skin. This was one of the most discomforting parts of his duties – massaging scented oil into every part of his master's body to make him attractive to his partners. He wasn't sure if it was as bad or worse than standing and listening to the sounds of his lovemaking, or cleaning him afterwards. It was all unpleasant, just in different ways.

This time was different, though. He could sense the Master's nervousness through the tension in his body as well as in the emanations from his mind. He was snappish and impatient, his movements sharp and unpredictable. He continued to move all the time that Spock was massaging him, reaching out for bottles of scent and deodorant, and brushing his hair with swift, sharp strokes.

Spock finished rubbing the oil into the folds and curves of the man's body, wiped his hands on the towel on the washstand, and then stood back , clasping his hands behind his back and awaiting his next order as he had been taught to do.

'There now,' the man said as Spock stood back. 'Come on. Do me, quickly, and get me my robe. She'll be here…'

Spock recoiled inwardly, careful to let no sign of reluctance show in his face or body. *_Do me*_ was the euphemistic command to touch the man's genitals and stimulate him to a state of semi-arousal. There was nothing sexual in the contact. So far, mercifully, Spock had avoided his master's interests in that area. This was purely part of the ritual to make him look attractive – but Spock detested it all the same. He oiled his hands again and performed his task swiftly and efficiently, then picked up the robe that hung on the door, helping the man put it on and tying the belt for him with the elaborate knot he had been taught to do. This room was at least so familiar to him now that he had no problem navigating within it, and all of the master's accoutrements for lovemaking were arranged by Spock himself, so they were easy to lay his hands on when asked for.

There was a tentative knock on the door, and Spock moved to it quickly, opening it while standing unobtrusively behind it. His job from now on was to be as invisible as possible.

'Oh, sir, I didn't realise this was your bedchamber,' a female voice said nervously. She came in through the door, surrounded by a sense of hesitancy. 'I thought your *_melaka*_ collection would be in a room of its own.'

'Well, now,' the man said smoothly, with a tone in his voice that Spock instantly disliked. 'I keep it in the antechamber to this room. I thought you would sit and drink with me first.'

Spock pressed his lips together minutely, resisting any further expression. He recognised the girl's voice from earlier in the day. She was the seventeen year old daughter of a guest in the house, and by all accounts she was extremely pretty and extremely trusting. Perhaps his master did collect *_melaka_* flowers and press them for display, but it seemed unlikely to Spock – it was more a pastime that appealed to young girls than overweight, pampered lords of thirty or more years.

'Boy – wine. The blue *_she-oani*_,' his master said, and Spock moved forward silently to where the decanters were kept, feeling for the slim-necked one that held the *_she-oani*_ and pouring it with great care into two of the glasses he had arranged earlier.

'I – never have drunk alcohol,' the girl said nervously, as Spock brought the glasses over and held out the first towards her.

'Don't talk to the slave, Telani-esh,' Lord Milaresh said carelessly. 'You'll give him ideas of importance. And this is barely alcohol. It's more like water. All the debutantes are drinking it.'

There was a hesitation, and then she took the glass, her fingers just brushing at Spock's hand as she took it. Spock almost didn't let go. He knew from the smell, and from its effects on those that drunk it, that *_she-oani*_ was far from water.

'Stay, and refill as necessary,' his master said in the tone he kept for slaves.

Spock nodded respectfully, setting his concentration to hear every noise of sipping or swallowing or liquid moving in the glasses so he knew precisely when to offer more. It was almost impossible to follow the conversation when he was forced to focus so intensely, but he was aware at a low level of the girl's mental discomfort increasing even as her physical resistance slackened under the influence of the wine.

'Stand away,' his master said abruptly, his voice roughened with lust, and Spock moved back swiftly, putting the decanter back in its place and moving to his place near the door where he was to wait silently and unobtrusively through the love-making.

'Oh, don't worry about the slave,' he heard Milaresh murmur. 'He's stone blind, and incapable of speech.'

Spock clenched his fists behind his back. Every time he heard Milaresh say that the surge of anger became a little sharper.

He heard the girl murmur, 'Oh, sir, no… I can't – I never have,' and his master said, 'You'll enjoy it in a moment, dear,' then she cried out, 'No, please, not my – oh!'

There was the noise of ripping cloth, and a sudden sob from the girl, and a flurry of movement. Spock clasped his hands behind his back, forcing himself to stay still.

'Oh, there see, you're wet already for me,' Lord Milaresh said, and there was another strangled sob from the girl. Then the noise of struggle increased, something was knocked over, and the girl's cries grew louder and more desperate, and there was a sudden noise of a palm slapping hard on flesh.

Spock took a step forward.

'Stand away!' his master snapped, his voice breathless and distracted. 'Stand away or you'll be punished.'

Spock hesitated for a brief moment – but then the girl half-sobbed, 'Please, don't make me – ' and he lurched towards the bed without another thought, groping out at the noises, feeling the oiled, fat limbs of his master and then fumbling over the smoothness of the girl's naked back. In an instant he grabbed at the man and pulled him aside, finding his shoulder and swiftly sending him into unconsciousness with a nerve pinch. He dropped him to the floor, heedless of the crash he made, and reached out again for the sobbing girl, grasping at the bedspread and wrapping it around her before hustling her out of the room.

The crying continued as he hurried her down the corridor, but he could do nothing to encourage her to stop without being able to speak. Finally, though, she muttered, 'No, not that way. Please – my parents' room – it's that way.'

Spock paused, touching a hand to his eyes to remind her of his blindness.

'This way,' she said, turning to the right. 'Down here – just here.'

Spock fumbled out to his left to where he remembered the guest room door to be, and opened it, hurrying the girl through and pushing the door shut behind them. There was an exclamation of surprise from a man, and he was roughly pulled away from the girl and flung away from her.

'No! No!' the girl cried out, as Spock stumbled into something hard, and fell. He had no idea of the arrangement in this room. 'No, he didn't hurt me – he saved me from – from – Lord Milaresh was going to – he was – '

She suddenly collapsed into tears again. Spock clambered to his feet, stepping tentatively toward her.

'No,' the girl's father said, putting a hand against his chest. 'Barani-esh, take her into the other room. I'll speak to the slave.'

Spock waited, listening to someone else moving, and speaking with a low, feminine voice to the girl, who suddenly began to cry even harder with a sound of relief and release. Then a door closed, and the noise became quieter, and he turned his attention back to the man. There was a long pause, and he heard him sitting down, and sighing loudly.

'You're Milaresh's chamber-slave?' the man said.

Spock nodded, touching his hand to his mouth to indicate his lack of speech.

'Yes, I understand you can't speak or see. But you can damn well answer questions, at least yes and no. Now. Were you there the whole time?'

Spock nodded.

'Now, don't be afraid of telling the truth – it can only help you. Did – did Milaresh try to rape my daughter?'

Spock nodded again, and there was a long silence.

'Did – he succeed?'

Spock shrugged, but he shook his head at the same time.

'You think not. Did – ' He sighed again. 'Did she come to the room for – a relationship?'

Spock shook his head vehemently, trying to mime the process of leafing through a book.

'She came to see a book? So he tricked her, and – intoxicated her? I smelt wine on her.'

Spock nodded. That was the essence of the matter, even if the details were not perfectly accurate.

'Did you harm your master?'

Spock hesitated, then nodded.

'Do I need to send help to him?'

Spock nodded again. He doubted the man was badly hurt from the nerve pinch, but it seemed sensible to send someone to check since he did not know how he had fallen.

'You'll get into trouble.'

Spock nodded, dropping his head. He was not looking forward to the repercussions of his actions.

'Well, I'll put in what good words I can for you – but – Lord Milaresh is still your master, and I've no doubt he'll be harsh on you. No, don't worry – your life's safe,' he said at Spock's expression of concern. 'He couldn't execute you without a court order, and if I stood up before a judge and explained *_why*_ you attacked him he'd be the one facing a punishment. Take me to the master of your seven, and I'll try to explain.'

******

Within ten minutes Spock found himself on his knees in Master Robbesh's office with his head bowed to the floor and his hands cuffed behind his back, holding himself rigidly in position as the girl's father explained what had happened. Then, before the conversation was over, the door slammed open, and suddenly Lord Milaresh was there, seething with fury. He landed a vicious kick in Spock's ribs before anyone stop him, but then an argument erupted between the Lord and the girl's father, and Spock found himself completely ignored, trying to stay out of the way of all these angry people that he could not see or defend himself against. Then, finally, the door slammed again, and Spock became aware that the only person left with him was Master Robbesh.

'Well,' the man said slowly. 'You have caused us problems tonight, boy.'

Spock stayed still, waiting, as the man got to his feet and came over to him.

'I – will have to punish you,' he said, uncuffing his hands. 'I will have to punish you publicly, and well – and probably for a falsified reason that's to your own shame. But – I find myself more inclining to your right than our Lord's.'

Spock lifted his head very slightly, rubbing at the sore indents on his wrists that the cuffs had left behind.

'Yes, you can get up,' Robbesh told him. 'Are you damaged?'

Spock touched a hand briefly to where Lord Milaresh had kicked him. He had bruises from falling in the girl's parents' room, and he would have a good bruise on his ribs – but there were no breaks. He shook his head mutely.

'Good. Come, sit on the chair in front of my desk. Here,' he said, pushing something across the desk as Spock found the chair. He reached out and touched a glass with his fingers. 'Yes, drink it,' he said as Spock hesitated. 'There aren't many slaves would risk themselves for another. You did well. Just – *_don't*_ ever do it again, or Lord Milaresh would be within his rights to demand your death.'

Spock pressed his lips together. Even if he could speak he did not think he could promise not to do the same again.

'Don't worry about that this time,' he said. 'Lord Lavoresh has said he'd defend you in court, and your Lord dare not be accused of rape in a trial. At best he'd sell you on. You're worth a *_very*_ large amount of money in your condition, with your training. But I don't think he will – you're too useful.'

Spock nodded silently. He didn't know whether being sold on was a good prospect or a bad one. At least he knew what to expect from this master, no matter how much he disliked him.

'Just – don't attack him if he does it again,' Robbesh told him firmly. 'Leave, and get someone – a free person. Drag them by their arm if you must, but *_never*_ attack a freeman. *_Never*_.'

Spock nodded slowly, tracing his finger over the engraved patterns in the glass he held. The suggestion was logical. At least, it was better than choosing death in order to save another person's dignity. He imagined that not every free person would be willing to stand in court and defend his actions to save his life as Telani-esh's father would.

'Go on, drink,' Master Robbesh said firmly. 'You won't get many chances to drink something like this.'

He lifted the glass Master Robbesh had given him to his lips, and took a sip of the burningly strong alcohol. He had no appetite for it, but he was not sure he was permitted to refuse it.

'Is there anything I can do for you, to compensate for the pain you will suffer tomorrow?'

Spock hesitated, then touched his hand to his throat and his eyes, with little hope of anything coming from the gesture.

'No, I can't do that,' Robbesh said with a soft laugh. 'You know that. Lord Milaresh would allow that even less after what you heard tonight. If you were free to testify for the girl he could be imprisoned, and then we would all be in trouble. No. Is there anything *_reasonable*_ you desire?'

Spock shrugged. Against the quite reasonable wants to regain his sight and his voice and his freedom, there was little he desired. Anyway, there was no way of communicating anything he wanted.

'I'll free you from work tomorrow morning. Your type meditate to control pain, don't you?'

Spock nodded.

'You might want to do that, to prepare for what will happen to you at midday meal. If it's possible, I will allow you that afternoon and the day after free from your daily duties, for your recovery.'


	5. Chapter 4

4.

Spock arched against the whipping post, a soundless cry evident in the taut gaping of his mouth, as the lash hit again. Lord Milaresh had decreed that the punishment for last night's disobedience was for him to be stripped and whipped from the beginning of lunch until the last plate was cleared, while guests and household and slaves watched. Spock had been present at only one such punishment before. Without sight, he had not been able to judge whether or not the whip drew blood, or precisely how hard the blows were, but he had heard the man's cries, that had faded away, presumably in unconsciousness, long before the snap of the whip had ended. The hour it took the household to eat their lunch had never seemed so long – until now.

The whip was agonising, with a lash that not only cut into his back but also deposited a charge of electricity with each blow, disturbing his mind's ability to control the pain. He didn't know whether the man beating him knew precisely what he had done to deserve punishment, but he was certainly putting every effort into his job. For just this moment Spock was grateful for his muteness, since it meant he could not cry out no matter how much he wanted to.

Finally the last blow was given, and his hands were released, and he slipped down to the floor, shuddering with the after-effects of the charge-laden lashes. He heaved breath into his lungs, trying to control the stinging pain that pulsed harder with each beat of his heart. He had not been told to move, but he was glad – he wasn't even sure that he could stand.

There was silence in the room, a general mixture of awe, some sympathy and disgust towards him in the emotions swirling in the air. Then a soft murmuring began as people spoke of what had happened in undertones. It had been given out that he had been discovered lying on his Lord's bed, drinking his wine, and had struck his master when confronted. A certain amount of the words he caught were expressing scandalised shock at his insolence. There was nothing that Spock could do to defend his reputation. To a certain extent, he did not care what the free servants and nobles thought of him. All he could do for now was to kneel on the floor and try to control the pain, feeling the hot wetness of blood trickling slowly down his back.

Footsteps moved across the floor, and stopped in front of him. The tip of a booted foot touched his flank, prodding him lightly.

'Send him back to his labour,' Lord Milaresh said grandly.

'Of course, sir,' Master Robbesh said. 'Stand up, boy.'

Spock got slowly and shakily to his feet. He wasn't looking forward to the unassisted walk to wherever he was supposed to be going.

'Go on,' Master Robbesh said.

Spock moved forward, walking uncertainly towards the door, forcing himself to hold his hands at his sides despite his instability. His knees felt as if they would collapse underneath him without warning, and he wasn't sure how far he could walk. But as soon as the door closed behind them Master Robbesh took hold of his arm, supporting and guiding him. Spock turned his head towards him in surprise. Master Robbesh had never offered him guidance before.

'Stay in your room,' Master Robbesh said, leading him through the door. 'Stay small and quiet, and don't leave for anything. Wash yourself and then rest. Your clothes are on your bed, but I wouldn't advise putting them on until your wounds have dried. I'll send someone to apply some salve.'

Spock nodded, trying to show gratitude in the poise of his body. Master Robbesh let go of his arm, and he took a step forward – but he had used up all of his strength and ability at control during the whipping, and he sunk involuntarily to his knees, trying desperately to gather together a last reserve of energy.

'Never mind,' Master Robbesh sighed. 'I'll tell whoever I send to wash you too. Just stay there.'

Spock nodded. He waited for the man to leave, then curled forward, resting his head on his knees and trying to control the spasms of pain that were running through him. He bit his lip into his mouth, forcing himself to remember his disciplines, telling himself over and over that pain was a thing of the mind. At the moment, however, it seemed very much of the body.

Within a few minutes a woman had come into the room and began to carefully clean his back with a surprising gentleness.

'They say you did a good thing, and got whipped for it,' she said as she tended to a deep gash on his neck.

Spock nodded slightly, wincing against the pain.

'Well, it's not the first time he's had his desire with a girl against her will,' she said softly. 'But he's always stuck to servants and slaves before – least, as far as we know. But you're the first that's done anything about it.'

Spock pressed his lips together, wondering how many times he had stood at the side of that room when his master had been raping someone who was too scared to make any outward signs of resistance. He had grown used to shutting his shields down over the feelings of lust in the air, but perhaps he was shutting out more than just that.

'There,' she said, putting things back in a container, and touching his shoulder. 'I'm done. Master Robbesh says you're to rest, and I'm to see you have a good meal later. No meat – is that right?'

Spock nodded, surprised. He had reconciled himself to eating meat here. He had little choice. Again he found himself suffused with gratitude for Master Robbesh's benevolence. He didn't imagine that every slave on this planet had someone like that to stand between them and their master's whims.

******

It was late in the evening before he was summoned by his master again. Spock walked stiffly and apprehensively to his rooms, every laceration on his back tight with pain. When he knocked on the door and entered he could feel the anger radiating from the man inside, so intense that it almost felt like a physical barrier. He was met instantly with a blow to the side of his head, and he staggered, resisting the imperative to fight back.

'Stand still,' Lord Milaresh said in a tone of fury.

Before Spock could even think of obeying something struck his chest so hard that it made him choke as he drew breath. He staggered backwards, hearing the momentary swish and metallic clink of the object again just before it slammed into him.

'*_Stand still*_,' Milaresh ordered again, whipping out at him again. From the sound and the feel of it Spock guessed it was the buckle end of a belt. The pain it inflicted on his chest and stomach was astounding, even through his tunic. He lifted his arms to defend himself, and the buckle caught his wrist with a pain that made his eyes water. '*_Stand still_*, you fucking animal,' Milaresh shouted again, his voice raw with uncontrolled fury as the belt hit again and again.

Spock stepped backwards. He could not make himself stand motionless as this man beat him. He found himself standing against the wall, and he felt desperately out to his side for the door.

'Oh no, you're not going anywhere,' Milaresh growled. 'Come on,' he said roughly, grabbing hold of his arms and pushing and kicking and hitting him across the room. 'Come on here. You denied me what I wanted last night. I'll have it from you.'

Spock stiffened apprehensively, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to protect himself. His only escape would be violence or the nerve pinch that would be interpreted as violence, and Robbesh had warned him that that would result in death. He found himself pushed forward over the table that stood near the drinks cabinet, and suddenly something cold had clicked about his wrist and tethered it to the table leg. Spock bit his lip into his mouth. He had often laid out the restraints that his lord sometimes chose to use to make his love-play more exciting, but he had never expected to be subjected to them himself. The second pair of cuffs was attached to his other wrist and the other table leg, stretching his arms wide and forcing him to stand bent over the table. Then each of his ankles were being lashed to the table legs on this side, pulling his legs apart, and his clothes were being ripped from him and thrown aside.

He strained against the restraints, but struggling did nothing but hurt him, so he stilled, and waited. There was silence, but he could feel the man standing behind him. Every muscle in his body contracted, waiting to be touched. But Lord Milaresh had no intention of a sexual attack at that moment – instead he laid into the Vulcan again, beating his back and legs furiously with the belt. Spock closed his eyes, desperately trying to control pain laid on pain, unable to do anything but lean over the table and accept the punishment.

Then he stopped, and Spock heard him sit on his bed, panting heavily. Spock waited silently, letting the waves of pain crash through him and trying to analyse and lessen each one as it came. His respite lasted ten minutes – and then suddenly Milaresh was behind him again, parting his buttocks roughly, and forcing an entry to the Vulcan's body that would have made him scream with pain if he had been able.

******

When Milaresh withdrew from him he stayed frozen, every muscle clenched, his eyes tightly shut despite his blindness. He could not bear the thought of relaxing and letting what Milaresh had released in him trickle down his legs. Pain coursed through him, dwarfing the throbbing from his beating.

Each cuff was clicked open, one by one, and he straightened up, stepping backwards unsteadily, clutching his arms about his torso as if that could cover his horror and his nakedness.

'Go on – get out,' Milaresh said shortly. 'You've given me what I need.'

Spock turned stiffly, moving in a daze, reaching out a hand as if to feel for his clothes.

'Don't bother about your clothes,' Milaresh said, kicking at his ankle. 'Go on. Fuck off. You can come and clean up tomorrow. Fuck off back to your stall, or wherever it is I keep you.'

Spock trembled, fighting with a huge amount of discipline against the fury that was urging him to turn and snap Milaresh's neck with one hand. It was a small relief that the man hadn't demanded that he put the room to order now, because he didn't know how he could bear staying in his sight, obeying his orders. He moved to the door as quickly as possible, letting himself out into the silent corridor and standing still for a moment, trying to calm the shivers of horror. Then the uncomfortable feeling of pressure in his rectum reminded him cruelly of the physicality of what had been done to him, and he moved swiftly on down the corridor, desperate to get back to the slave room before his clenched muscles let go.

******

He was grateful that when he entered the room everyone seemed to be asleep. The servant who had been sent to see he went in also gave him new clothes, but he asked nothing about how Spock had lost his original outfit, or why he was cut and bruised and obviously traumatised. Spock put the clothes automatically in his alcove on the wall, and then went into the tiny toilet at the side of the room. He sat there for over an hour with his hands pressed over his face, trying to expel every trace of what Milaresh had left in his body. There was a great deal of pain, and he thought he could smell blood too, but he was almost certainly bleeding from the numerous lacerations on his torso. Certainly what was leaving his body felt more fluid than it should be. But there was nothing he could do. He could not call anyone and explain. How did one sign rape?

He clasped his hands together, rubbing them over his head. The metal band about his left wrist caught at his hair, reminding him of its presence, and he ran his fingers over it. Perhaps if he deliberately broke the bones in his hand he could wrench the band off, and escape – but he couldn't escape without seeing where he was going. The idea was ridiculous. He had been rendered utterly helpless.

A shudder ran through him. He didn't think he had ever been brought this low before, or been so utterly subject to another person's desires without hope of resistance. Now it had happened this first time there was no reason why it should not happen again, and he could do nothing to stop it. He would have to stand in Milaresh's room tomorrow night, and the night after that, and every night he was called upon, and wait for it to happen again, and know that he would have to submit without struggle. Every facet of his life here seemed to have condensed into this pinpoint of misery, and there was nowhere to turn for hope.

He exhaled slowly. He had to deal with this. No one else could help him. It wasn't as if he was totally unfamiliar with the idea of such intercourse. He spent every night in a room with six other men who had no sexual outlet but each other, in a culture where gender boundaries were not so firmly drawn. Although thankfully none of them had attempted any advance towards him he was familiar enough with waking to the gentle sounds of love-making in the room. But that was so different… That was his friends dealing with their biological need in the only way they could, in a consensual and considered way. This was… This was horrific, it was brutal and violent and full of pain. He had been used as nothing more than an orifice, to punish his disobedience, to show him who was in control, to prove just how little power he really had. Everything seemed centred now on that one small part of his body that was still spasming with pain. All he could think of was the pressure of that man's corpulent body over his and the clawing of his hands into his shoulders, and the feeling of that rod of flesh inside him, and the guttural sounds of satisfaction he had made as he finally climaxed. Those bestial grunts of pleasure were echoing and magnifying in his mind until he could hear nothing else.

He had to stop himself from reliving it over and over. He rose and moved to the shower at the back of the room. He took the cloth that they all shared and ruthlessly washed himself from top to bottom, letting the pain of the fresh bruises and cuts distract himself from the pain between his legs. He dried himself and went silently to his bed. He lay there shivering for some minutes before he realised he was not the only one awake in the room.

Finally Delash said, 'He beat you well, didn't he?'

Spock nodded stiffly. Delash moved over to him and lifted the blanket for a second. Spock froze. Surely it was obvious in every facet of his body what had just happened to him? Surely there were marks at his wrists and ankles, and where the edge of the table had bruised his hips, and where Milaresh's cruel fingers had pulled at his buttocks to open him up? Surely he smelt of it? But Delash simply said, 'What was it? Belt buckle? He's handy with the bad end of his belt.'

Spock nodded, keeping his eyes closed.

'Gods, surely they did enough to you at lunchtime?' He fell silent, then said after a moment, 'You're cold tonight.'

He nodded again. He felt as if he would never get warm.

Delash pulled his own sleeping mat across and laid it down flush to Spock's, before lying down himself with his body spooned against Spock's back. He could only be grateful that the man was perceptive enough to know by now that Spock disliked skin-to-skin contact, and took great care to keep Spock's blanket between them. Then he took his own blanket and laid it over both of them.

'I'm not hurting you, am I?' he asked anxiously.

Spock shook his head. The slight pressure against his whipped back was painful, but the comfort and warmth from the man's presence far outweighed the pain. He wished he could thank him, but lying as he was it would be useless even to try to sign it.

'You're welcome,' Delash said softly, and Spock nodded in return. He wasn't sure how he would survive in this place without this man, who seemed to know what he wanted to say even when Spock wasn't sure how to say it himself.

******

He woke more than once that night from dreams that were simply vivid re-livings of what had happened in his master's room, his throat choking on sounds that he could not utter – but each time Delash woke too and touched his shoulder to reconnect him with reality. Finally he managed to pull together enough control to at least soften and suppress the dreams when they came, and eventually he gained a few hours of solid sleep to help himself recover from the abysmal day that had gone before.

When the bell rang out in the morning he didn't react, waiting for Delash to move first.

'Spockesh, are you awake? Are you all right?' the man asked in concern.

Spock nodded stiffly. He had little desire to move. Every part of his body ached with bruising, and that place between his legs was tight with sore, stinging pain. But he had to move. He had to get up and get dressed and go out to his breakfast and carry on as if this was any other day. He sat up slowly, the blanket falling away from his chest, and he heard the shocked reactions of the others in the room as they saw him. He knew his face alone must present evidence enough of his injuries – he could feel tender bruises on his jaw and temple and left ear where his master's fists and belt had caught him.

'Master belted him,' Delash explained succinctly.

'That's some good bruising there,' Andresh remarked. 'I've never seen him lay into someone that hard before.'

'You haven't been here that long. You've never seen him that angry,' Lamesh replied, coming over to the Vulcan and touching his chest with great care. 'He's not broken any bones, has he?' he asked with concern.

Spock shook his head. He felt as if he was wearing a skin-tight suit of pain, and he seemed to have no energy or will to suppress it. It hurt to sit and to stand and to lie down. It hurt to move – but it seemed to go no further than cuts and bruises.

'Sal, go and tell Master Robbesh,' Lamesh said. 'He can't work outside today – he just can't. He can hardly move.'

'I'll *_tell*_ him,' Salensh said doubtfully. He disappeared briefly, then came back into the room with an aura of surprise about him. 'Spockesh, he says stay where you are. He'll come and see you when he's got breakfast over. He said, don't get dressed – he wants to look you over.'

Spock nodded sombrely, pulling his blanket up to wrap it around himself like a cloak. Perhaps Lamesh was right. He probably shouldn't be working outside today – but at least the work would have kept his mind occupied.

He waited while the others washed and dressed and left, sitting uncomfortably on his bed mat with his arms about his knees. Finally Master Robbesh entered.

'Come on, stand up,' he said briefly. 'Let me see the damage.'

Spock stood slowly, letting the blanket fall away with disguised reluctance, standing still while Master Robbesh circled him, touching the bruises and lacerations on his body.

'Well, he certainly worked his anger out, didn't he?' Master Robbesh said.

Spock thought he detected annoyance in the man's tone. Presumably it only made the day more difficult when slaves were pulled out of the labour pool. They would have to use an animal to pull the cart, and an animal needed far more close care than a slave. Master Robbesh lifted Spock's wrist, inspecting it carefully.

'He chained you,' he said, and Spock nodded. He touched his fingers to the two tender bruises on each hip where he had been repeatedly slammed against the table. 'So – I guess he fucked you too?'

Spock dropped his head. Just having it spoken of in such a casual manner made him nauseous.

'Well, it is an effective punishment for you, isn't it?' Master Robbesh said curiously. 'It's not one I like, but you've taken it now, and likely that's evened out the score for him. I'm sorry you had to take that on top of the whipping in front of the household, but it's over now. You'd do best to forget it.'

Spock lifted his head sharply, an eyebrow rising in anger. How was he supposed to forget an event like that? No Vulcan would expect rape to be accepted with equanimity.

'You're a slave, boy,' Master Robbesh said at his reaction. 'You can't expect to say yea or nay over what happens to your body. You may not have desired his attention, but you don't have the right to refuse it. No court in the land would stand up and say that you did. The only power out of his hands is the right to end your life – and that lies with the court, not you.'

Spock closed his arms over his chest in a subconscious effort to show that he owned his own body.

'You have to learn that, no matter how much you dislike it,' Master Robbesh said plainly. 'He owns your skin, he owns your bones, your heart, your stomach, your lungs. He owns that hole you shit through and he can do what he likes with it, whether that be taking you himself or coupling you with another slave for his own amusement. He owns that soft sack between your legs, and he can have it off if he likes, or leave it on, or take your seed to make himself more stock, or have you do to him what he did to you.'

Spock turned away, trying to suppress the shaking that was setting up in his body despite his efforts at control.

'*_Don't*_ turn away from me,' Master Robbesh said, taking hold of his arm and pulling him back. Spock's instinctive reaction was to slap his hand away, but he stopped himself just before his muscles obeyed the command. 'Listen. It may not be fair, but that's just the truth of what you are now. You're not free and you don't have rights – and if you want to spare yourself you have to understand that and toe the line. I'm sorry for you, believe me. I'm sorry for what you've been brought to. I saw what you were before Master took a fancy to you and arranged to have you. You've fallen a long way. But I can't do anything about it. I can just be glad I'm on my side of the fence and not yours.'

Spock exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. He knew despite everything that Master Robbesh was fair even if he was harsh. He needed to keep in favour with him, for his own sake. He nodded slowly, as the only way he could show his acquiescence.

'All right,' Robbesh said, touching his arm. 'Let me see,' he said, turning Spock around. Spock stiffened, but did not resist as Master Robbesh touched a hand to his buttock. Thankfully, the man did not give him any more than a cursory visual inspection. 'A very little blood.'

He moved away, and Spock heard the rustle of blankets.

'You've not bled into your sleep mat – it's nothing serious. But Salensh is right. You can't work outside today. You'd be more of a danger than a help in your condition. Just – stay there, I'll send some food in for you, and some antiseptic cream too. You can put that on your wounds – *_all*_ of them,' he said firmly. 'You can come and assist me later. Then tonight – '

Spock stiffened. He had no desire to come into Lord Milaresh's company again after what he had done. He knew he had no choice in the matter – how little choice had just been made very clear to him – but he didn't have to like it.

'Don't worry. Thanks to you your Lord is having to go to Lavorian household to atone for what he tried with their daughter. He'll probably have to be there for a number of days. Lavoresh will have no desire to drag him through the courts and expose his own daughter in that way, so some kind of settlement will have to be worked out. Tonight, I was going to say, you can stay in your room with the rest of your seven, and perhaps by the day after you'll be ready for work again?'

Spock nodded again, instinctively using the sign that Lamesh had taught him for thank you. His use of sign language was becoming more and more instinctive as each day went by.

'Hey,' Master Robbesh said quickly, grasping his hand and pushing it down to his side. 'Use that with your seven – use it *_sparingly*_, in private – but don't flash an ability to communicate about in front of anyone else. It's not encouraged. *_I'm*_ not supposed to encourage it – but some might report it to Lord Milaresh, and he wouldn't be pleased at all. Do you understand?'

Spock nodded quickly. Obviously a mute slave with an ability to communicate was a useless commodity, and the danger of being useless was obvious. He could not imagine that his master would simply let him free.

'Good. Now, I'll have that food and cream sent in, and you can stay here in peace this morning. I'll have you brought to my room after midday and I'll set you to work.'

Spock nodded again, keeping his hands still at his side. Master Robbesh left the room and he turned and went back to his sleeping mat, sinking down onto it and hugging his blanket about himself tightly. He leaned sideways, resting his head on the cool of the wall. After a moment he reached out to touch it, wondering about the reality of his situation. He had never seen this room. He had no idea what colour the walls were, or what colour his bed mat or blanket was. He had no idea of the faces of his seven. Master Robbesh, he had seen, briefly, but he could not put faces to any other names. And now he was sitting here in this room he had never seen, with the knowledge of what had happened to him last night battering at his mind. Surely it could not be real?

He got up and went into the shower, trying again to wash the feeling of what had happened from his body. Whatever he did he could still feel Lord Milaresh's oily flesh pressed over him, and the repeated slap of his hips against his buttocks, the bruises from the table edge against his own hips, and the stinging soreness between his legs. He turned the shower off and stood there, letting the water run from him, trying to rationalise the repeating memories. It should have been easy. All that had happened was that a man had touched him and hurt him in a place that was private to him. But it wasn't easy, and he couldn't rationalise his reaction.

He went back to his bed, and discovered that a bowl of food and a medicinal-smelling tube had been placed on it while he was in the shower. He sat and carefully rubbed the cream into every place on his body that seemed to have open wounds, ruthlessly suppressing his revulsion to push his finger into that place where Milaresh had entered and apply cream to the stinging lacerations. Then he washed his hands and turned his attention to the food, touching his fingers lightly to it and smelling it to try to ascertain what had been brought for him. He didn't feel like eating, but it was logical to eat. It seemed to be a cold, disparate mixture of cheeses, limp, cooked vegetables in various sauces, and lumps of the local version of potato. Perhaps it was scrapings from the plates of the free household's last meal – but it was more pleasant than the thick porridge, and probably far better for him too. There was no cutlery, so he ate it with his fingers, then washed his hands again and lay back down on his side on his bed with his blanket wrapped around him.

******

Food was sent to him again at midday. By that time Spock was dressed, with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders to try to get somewhere close to the warmth he constantly craved here. He was deeply immersed in meditation, attempting to control his anger and shame at what had happened the night before. He was, at least for now, glad that he could not see, so he could not look down at the body that had betrayed his mind, or catch a glimpse in a mirror and see his face with the knowledge of what he had become.

The clatter of a bowl on the floor, and the touch of a woman's hand on his shoulder, snapped him out of the meditation before he had achieved what he had wished. He was not sure if he would ever achieve what he had wished – but at least he had sufficient control now not to react with violence to that startling touch.

'Your lunch,' the woman said.

She sounded young, her voice soft and pleasant. Spock raised his head, nodding his thanks. Presumably she was a slave like him – or perhaps, not quite like him. She, at least, could see and speak. With those two sparse words her voice had sounded full of sympathy. Did she know what had happened to him? He couldn't imagine that Master Robbesh would advertise it.

No, he decided. His wounds from the beating were quite obvious, and the true story of what he had done to anger Lord Milaresh was common knowledge among the slaves. That would elicit sympathy enough. Unless Lord Milaresh boasted of it, only three people in this place would know the true details of the attack, and he was quite content to let it stay that way.

The woman picked up the bowl and put it to his hand, perhaps thinking he would not be able to find it where she had left it on the floor.

'Master Robbesh says, when you've eaten your lunch, you're to come to his office,' she said in that gentle voice again. 'Understand?'

Spock nodded, taking the bowl and sniffing the contents. It seemed to be a repetition of the same mish-mash of scraps that he had eaten that morning.

'He's well-disposed to you, Sarkesh,' the woman said. 'That's a big thing you've got on your side.'

Spock nodded again. It had stopped jarring now when people called him Sarkesh. It was only those in his seven who called him Spockesh, and then only in private, so as not to expose his ability to mindmeld. It was, perhaps, better that way. Sarkesh was a slave, mute and blind, subject to every whim of the free-born around him. He was cuffed and pushed, shouted at and blamed and whipped for his transgressions. Spock lived inside his own mind, with his own thoughts, separate from this unpleasant world around him…

Except – except for what Milaresh had done to him last night. Somehow that bridged the gap between servile, maltreated Sarkesh and Spock, Vulcan, scientist, First Officer of the starship _Enterprise_. Everything else, he thought, could be shaken off when – if – this all ended. But that one act, those five minutes of hell… He could not begin to imagine how to un-weave that intrusion from the tangled threads of his life.

He came back to himself, realising that he was alone in the room again, and that his hand was gripping tightly enough on the bowl to dent the metal. He sighed, hoping that the damage was not severe enough to be noticed, and marked on his punishment sheet. He had only three more marks left to him before he would incur punishment, and he had suffered quite enough pain in the last two days.

******

He came to Master Robbesh's room clean and presentable, with a mask of non-emotion covering over the turmoil inside him. He knocked softly on the door, and was rewarded immediately by a voice inside calling, 'Come.'

Master Robbesh almost never made anyone wait – at least, not simply for the sake of showing the slaves their place. Spock opened the door, silently as he had been taught, and stepped through into the invisible room.

'Ah, Sarkesh,' Master Robbesh said.

From his voice, he seemed to be seated behind his desk. Spock had gradually gleaned certain specifics of this room – the desk opposite him, a couple of chairs, shelves about the walls, and some kind of filing cabinets on the right. He had superimposed a vision of the place, taken from his own experience of such offices, but he knew that his imagined room must have very little to do with the real one. He had found that the best way to create a map of his surroundings was to create his own reality, and in that way the entire mansion was a composite of his recollections of the ship, of places on Vulcan and Earth and sundry other planets he had spent time on through his life. It was, he supposed, inaccurate, but it at least gave him something familiar to grasp in his attempts to deal with this invisible world.

Spock stood, hands clasped behind his back, waiting.

After a long, loaded silence, Robbesh said softly, 'My master gave me a task before he left for the Lavorian manor. He has asked me to talk to you. To make sure you know where you stand.'

Spock raised his head a little, and nodded. It was an odd relationship he had with Master Robbesh. He respected and liked him, to a certain extent, and he was sure that Master Robbesh held much the same opinion of him. But as things stood at the moment, he was a slave and Master Robbesh held power and authority over him. He could not help but feel uncomfortable in his interactions with someone who held control of his very body and freedom.

'You are his chamber slave,' Robbesh continued. 'That means that you exist to serve Lord Milaresh in all of his chamber needs – *_all*_ of them,' he said firmly. 'Your body is his to do with as he likes.'

Spock dropped his head again, tightening his hands into fists at his sides. He could still feel the evidence of Lord Milaresh's power, in the tight, sore pain between his buttocks and the cuts and bruises all over his torso.

'He intends to continue using you to relieve his sexual needs,' Robbesh said. His voice had dropped, and he sounded as if he was leaning a little closer across his desk. 'After all, that's why he had you brought here. It is your duty to be passive and accept what he chooses to do to you.'

Spock stiffened, his face a white mask, lips pressed together into thin lines.

'You did a noble thing for the Lavorian girl,' Robbesh continued. 'What he did to her won't be spread around publicly – but women talk to each other, and your Lord may find far fewer willing to go with him to his room. That means he will have to find a substitute. *_You*_ are his substitute. That's the price you will have to pay for what you did. I have been told to make it clear to you – if you don't obey him promptly and willingly, you will be subject to punishment. You know from experience that he will have you anyway, if he wishes. So, it is – only logical – that you submit to him willingly – is it not?'

Spock nodded very, very slowly, biting his lip into his mouth.

'I'm trying to save you pain, Sarkesh,' Robbesh said, a trifle roughly.

Spock nodded again, closing his eyes and dropping his head again.

Robbesh left him in silence for a few long minutes. Spock was grateful for the time and the chance to draw together his incoherent thoughts and order them into a semblance of control.

_*Kaidth_*, he told himself. *_What cannot be changed must be accepted*._

He could not accept it – but the time Robbesh gave him at least allowed him to draw a veil of calm back across himself.

'Now… What can you do for me?'

Robbesh sighed, sounding as if he was shuffling paper on his desk. There was a long silence, then he said in a tone of frustration, 'You're so little use to me, blind. I imagine you'd have a lot to offer me if you could see.'

Spock raised an eyebrow in chagrin. It was Master Robbesh who had blinded him, who had taken his ability to speak, who had passed over the money that sold him irrevocably into slavery.

'Yes, I know,' Robbesh muttered, correctly reading his expression. 'Believe me, I don't like mutilating people. I follow orders, just as you do.' He paused again, then said rather defensively, 'I brought you here to give you something to do, so you weren't sitting in that room thinking of nothing but what's been done to you over the last few days. Would you rather I sent you back?'

Spock lifted his head, then shook it slowly. Every movement made his cuts and bruises throb with pain, but any distraction was welcome from that constant feeling between his legs.

'Sit down for a minute,' Robbesh said, tapping his hand on a chair. 'Let me get sorted here.'

Spock moved over to the chair and sat carefully, trying not to put too much pressure on the bruises from Milaresh's belt buckle. He sat listening to Robbesh moving about the room. At one point he clicked a button and spoke into what was obviously a comm device, and Spock clenched his hands at his sides. He was so close to a device that could gain him freedom, but he could not see to use it, and even if he could open a channel he could not speak to alert anyone to his situation. He had never felt so utterly helpless as he did now, in the aftermath of Milaresh's attack.

'Here,' Robbesh said eventually, thrusting a cloth and a spray bottle into his hands. 'It's been a while since I've let any of those cleaning oafs into here – I don't like them looking through the Master's accounts. Start with the shelves, take the books off and clean the covers, then clean the shelves too. Don't mess up the order. I rely on order.'

Spock nodded, and turned immediately to his work.

Hours passed, with almost no conversation between him and Robbesh – or at least, almost no one-sided comments from Robbesh. The man occasionally looked up from his work and directed Spock to another place in the room, or praised him for his achievements. It seemed that sightlessness gave him an advantage over the regular cleaning slaves, because it caused him to be more thorough. And Robbesh had been right – the slow, meditative task of cleaning what he could not see was a perfect focus for his distracted mind.

Finally, Robbesh called him from his work, allowing him to sit down, and again pressing a fluted glass of some kind of spirit on him. Robbesh's leniency with Spock through the day spoke of the type of person he was – fair, despite the power he held. The alcohol, though – the second time he had pressed it on Spock – spoke more of guilt than anything else. If Spock had had a way of communicating it, he would have let Robbesh know that he did not hold him to account for what had happened. He knew that Lord Milaresh's word was the final one in this place, whether one was free, servant, or slave. It would be illogical to expect Robbesh to favour the slaves at the detriment of his own safety. And the alcohol, at least, dulled some of the sharper shards of pain in his mind as it slipped down his throat.


	6. Chapter 5

5.

Spock returned to his regular work in the mine after only one day of rest. He felt like an automaton as he pushed the cart in and out of the mine – but he was little more than a living automaton anyway, performing the task that a machine would easily perform if they could use them here. The physical effort of the task at least helped to calm some of the feelings he was experiencing. It was hard to keep a flame of anger burning when one was exhausted.

Lamesh and Andresh accused him of being quiet – which seemed an ironic accusation since he was mute, but he understood what they meant. He had very little enthusiasm for wide hand gestures at the moment. A dull misery seemed to be constantly draped over him despite his efforts to control it. He spent most of his rest time seated on his sleeping mat with his hands folded in his lap, trying to stop the vicious revolutions of his mind as it forced him to relive what had happened over and over.

It was five days before Lord Milaresh returned to the house. Spock had not set foot inside his master's rooms since that night, and no matter how much time he spent trying to persuade himself of the illogic of his emotional reaction, he did not want to. He had been dreading the order to go and make the rooms ready for his lord's return, but at least that had not come to pass. Master Robbesh had let him know that another slave had been sent to clean and order the place after his –

Spock dropped his head, taking in a deep breath. Words were simply words, but it was becoming harder and harder to let that one word, _*rape_*, run through his mind. Just those four letters, in that particular combination, brought a sickness into his stomach and a mesh of impossible emotions into his mind. He had expected it to become easier with time, but instead it was becoming harder. He knew that every second that passed brought him closer to Milaresh's presence, to the possibility of such a thing happening again.

The seconds that were passing now seemed to resonate in his mind. He had been ordered to his Lord's room. He was walking along the wooden floor of the upper corridor now. He reached the door, and stood outside it for a moment, his hand touching the frame. He did not want to go in...

He had to – he absolutely _*had_* to – make himself. He moved his hand and rapped lightly on the door, twice to indicate it was the chamber slave and no one else, and then opened the door, and stepped inside.

Lord Milaresh was talking to another man, laughing carelessly at something, and he did not acknowledge Spock's presence. Spock was used to that by now. He took his place by the door, dropped his head, clasped his hands behind his back, and waited.

After some time he realised the conversation had turned to him, although he was still being generally ignored, apart from the perfunctory order to serve *_liarn* _to the two men.

'Yes, Sarkesh,' Milaresh drawled. 'That's my name for him – God knows what he calls himself.'

'It's a Vulcan,' the other man said. 'That's a rare prize.'

His name was Mavanesh, Spock had gleaned, and he was another mine owner from an estate not far away. He seemed to have the same combination of spoilt, presumptive self-confidence that Milaresh had. The man came across the room, and touched Spock's tapering ears with a careless hand, bending them in a show of examining them.

Spock suppressed reaction. He did not like this man. At least, he did not like his voice – rough and arrogant – and he did not like the thoughts he sensed from him when the man touched him. There seemed to be something about him… Perhaps he was a degree less lazy than Milaresh, and that could only make him more dangerous.

'Yes,' Milaresh said. 'I got him because his looks are pleasing, and I thought he'd be a good worker – and he is – but I didn't expect him to be so damned moral. I guess you heard about that business last week?'

'Oh, that little Lavorian slut,' Mavanesh said with a harsh laugh. 'And the slave stopped you? Hell, men shouldn't bring their families along on business if they want them to stay chaste and protected.' He grasped Spock's chin in his hand, raising his head and turning it from side to side, perhaps examining the bruising that was still evident there. 'I hope you disciplined him?'

Spock stiffened inwardly. He did not dare show any outward sign of his discomfort.

'Oh, yes,' Milaresh laughed. 'Had him flogged – then I saw to it he got some private punishment. By God it felt good fucking him, especially after what he cheated me out of. Hell, one virgin's as good as another.'

'I guess he knows who his master is now, eh?' Mavanesh asked, lifting Spock's chin higher merely to see him submit without resistance.

'Oh, yes,' Milaresh said. 'And I'll keep on letting him know – you see if I don't. That reminds me – I need to put a few marks on his punishment sheet. He damaged my table with his struggling. He learnt pretty quickly there was no point, though.'

The man rose and came across the room, putting himself so close to Spock that he could smell his breath billowing over his face, tainted with alcohol and breath fresheners.

'Look at that,' he said. Spock got the distinct impression that something was being waved before his face. 'He's stone blind, but he can do almost everything I require. He's got so little power of speech he couldn't even make a sound when I fucked him. And he can stand there for hours, without moving, and obey me the instant I speak.'

'Does he do a good rub?' Mavanesh asked curiously, turning his examination to Spock's hands and poking at the almost-healed bruising on his wrists. Spock's instinct was to crush the man's fingers between his own, but he resisted it.

'Massage? Sure,' Milaresh said carelessly. 'That's the beauty of his species – whether or not he enjoys his work, he'll try his damnedest to do a good job. I'll have him do you later, if you like.'

'You don't fancy selling him on, do you?' Mavanesh asked, finally moving away. Milaresh followed him across the room. 'I mean, he must have disappointed you.'

Spock's focus tightened. What would it be like to be moved to a new place, a new master? He felt something approaching hatred toward Milaresh, but perhaps a new master would be worse – especially this one, with that vein of sharp cruelty that he could sense in him. He knew his way around this place, and he had Master Robbesh to protect him to some extent. He had friends.

Of course, it was all immaterial. Whatever Milaresh wished to do with him, he had no choice in the matter.

'Oh, I can't be bothered with breaking in another chamber slave,' Milaresh complained lazily. 'No, I'll have to keep him. He's good at what he does, and he'll be useful when the guest-rooms are empty of lovely ladies. I know that now. I've never known another man quite as - _*clean_* as him… Something like that, anyway. I can't quite pin it down. He's a pleasure to fuck. He's put on muscle since he's been working for me. And he's _*hot_*. His body temperature's a good few degrees warmer than ours.'

Despite himself, Spock felt the edges of his mouth tighten. This was the first real suggestion that his fears might become reality. It was possible that that terrible night would be repeated, probably more than once.

'And tonight?' the other man asked curiously. 'Your table was empty tonight, wasn't it?'

There was a long pause. Spock almost bit his lip into his mouth, but he stopped the automatic reaction just in time.

'Robbesh has warned me against it,' Milaresh said in a petulant tone, rubbing his foot on the thick carpet as if to avoid focussing on his guest. 'My highest overseer. He's like an old woman sometimes, really, the way he thinks I should treat the slaves.'

'But you obey the old woman?' Mavanesh said with a derisory laugh.

'I wouldn't want to lose him,' Milaresh said with a moment of unusual honesty. 'He keeps this entire place working smoothly. But anyway, apparently I tore him,' he said, referring to Spock again. 'And I don't want to have to waste money on a doctor if he gets infected.'

Spock relaxed again, for the first time feeling grateful for that tight, stinging pain that he felt every time he moved – and renewing his gratitude towards Master Robbesh a hundredfold.

'You got me here under false pretences, Milaresh,' Mavanesh said airily. 'I come to your estate expecting a good time, and you offer me nothing but some wine, and the sight of a chamber-slave your high overseer forbids you to touch. I want to experience this alien delicacy. What's the point in a slave if you can't have your will with him?'

'Well,' Milaresh said slowly.

There was the clink of his glass, and he drank again. Spock blinked, realising he had lost track of how much his master had drunk. He wouldn't know when to offer a refill, and a mark would be put down against him on the punishment sheet.

'Well,' Milaresh said again. To Spock's relief, he swirled the liquid in his glass, and the Vulcan was aware again of the precise amount he had left. 'You can get a massage from him at any rate. And I'll call up some of the female chamber-slaves, since there are no other guests for them to service. And as for this delicacy,' he said, his voice turning towards Spock, 'we'll just have to see how the evening goes, Mavan. We'll just have to see how the evening goes.'

******

Spock slid into his bed and pulled his blanket up over his body, shivering again with the chill of an overlong shower. It was now almost four months since that first, horrifying attack in Milaresh's room, almost four months since his introduction to Milaresh's close friend Mavanesh, and since the pair of them had begun their regular use of his body for their own amusement. He never quite knew when to expect Milaresh's predations, but he did know the set night each week that Mavanesh visited, when they would spend their lusts together in drunken depravity. He always spent that day trying to marshal his disciplines and reconcile himself to what _*must_* happen, but it never seemed to make it any easier.

He flexed his hands, still feeling the massage oil from the night's work under his fingernails and in the creases of his palms, and…

He shuddered. He was reaching the point of tolerance of feeling this cold, both in his body and in the core of his soul.

The core of his soul… He almost laughed inside his mind. How illogical such a phrase was, as if the amorphous, dubious entity of the soul had something as solid as a core. He had always felt a certain, dependable solidity at the centre of himself – perhaps the Vulcan disciplines he leant upon, or a knowledge of the strength and abilities of his own body. A dependable solidity, in conflict with that slender part of himself that remembered the childhood taunts, the days and weeks and months when his father seemed to see him as an aberration from the Vulcan norm, the looks of censure from certain of his teachers.

He wasn't sure what had happened to that dependable store of disciplines now. He wasn't even sure what had happened to the insecure, childlike part of himself. It was all being pushed aside by a certain tumour in his mind – by the thought of what had been done to him and what was yet to be done. There was the feeling of the oil on his skin, and the memory of the feelings… The woman, blind and mute like him, who had been tumbled on the bed next to him and pressed up against him. The knowledge of her own self-loathing despite her mute capitulation to whatever the two men, Milaresh and Mavanesh, had done to her. The knowledge of his own mute capitulation to the same treatment…

_*He lies there like a corpse_*, Mavanesh complained. Frequently he made that complaint. Spock knew that he could not actively resist, so his only defence was complete passivity. Sometimes he was allowed that. Other times Milaresh struck him or threatened him until he came to life. Tonight had been one of those times.

His skin was crawling with remembered sensation. He hugged the blanket closer around himself. And then Delash, wakeful and intuitive as always, moved closer and wrapped his own blanket over them both. Since that first night when Milaresh had beaten and raped him, it had become Delash's standard practice to watch him for signs of chill or unease, and to move silently closer and share his blanket. Spock was certain that Delash had no idea of the worst of his sufferings, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as it continued – but he would not shun his friendship.

'Tough night, eh?' Delash murmured close to his ear, and Spock nodded minutely.

'Guess he's still angry with you then?' Delash asked.

Spock nodded again. Milaresh was always angry with him, for different reasons. This last was for a clumsy mistake in pouring a drink for him at dinner. Spock had caused his master's clothes to be stained in front of twenty guests, including Mavanesh. Milaresh had taken his anger out thoroughly enough on him later.

'He's not making it easy for you?'

Spock shook his head, keeping his eyes closed.

'Well…' Delash laid a hand on his arm, in between the two blankets. 'His anger'll wear off. It does, you know.'

Spock nodded his head silently again. He was well used to the cycles of Milaresh's anger. Often he felt like a dog belonging to a spoilt child – a living thing to be kicked and scolded and shouted at and beaten depending on how his master's mood changed. A dog would not be treated quite as he was though… A dog would not be abused precisely as Milaresh abused him.

'I'll tell you something, Spockesh,' Delash said, moving his mouth closer to Spock's ear, so the Vulcan could feel the moist warmth of his breath against his skin. 'I heard there's Starfleet ships about recently. They're not common about here.'

Spock stiffened, turning his head towards Delash. This enforced disability was infuriating. There were a hundred questions he could ask Delash about the rumour he had just passed on, if only he could articulate them.

He signed quickly, *_Who?*_

'What, who did I hear it from?' Delash asked. 'Just snippets I've heard from guests and their slaves and servants. Or, which ships? I don't know that. Just Starfleet. Big ones, though. The type that means business.'

Spock closed his eyes. If he had been human he would have put his hands together in prayer.

'We'll do what we can, Spockesh,' Delash promised, touching his arm again. 'It's not like we can put out a signal to them, but if there's any chance to pass on word of you being here, we'll do it.'

He signed, *_Thank you*_, putting all the gratitude he had into the small sign.

'Oh, don't mention it,' Delash said awkwardly. 'You're as close to us all now as any of us, Spockesh. We'll do all we can for you. You look after your seven. That's how it works.'

Spock lowered his head again to the sleeping mat. Just that small piece of news had made him feel relaxed enough to attempt sleep, and Delash's body against his was keeping him warm, as usual. Here, he was cared for. Outside this room lay all manner of abuses and indignities, but here, at least, would always be six other people who would be eyes for him, and speak for him, and protect him against what few things they could.


	7. Chapter 6

6.

Spock was sitting on his bed mat some days later, leaning against the wall of the slave room, when there was the first hint of something happening. He had woken before the bell, and sat up to meditate while he awaited its chime – but gradually he became aware that it was well past time for the bell to ring, and it had not sounded.

Spock straightened up. This was unprecedented. The bell rang out, _*always_*, at the same time every morning, and yet today it _*had not rung out_*. He reached out a hand to where Delash lay sleeping, and shook him by the shoulder.

Delash woke with a start.

'What? What? Gods, did I sleep through – '

Spock shook his head vehemently. _*The bell did not ring,_* he signed.

'What? Too early?' Delash muttered. It was clear he was not completely awake. 'What's wrong, Spockesh?'

Spock shook his head again, reiterating, _*The bell did not ring. It is past time.*_

Delash sat up abruptly, calling out, 'Wake up, boys. It's past alarm time, and it hasn't rung out!'

There was a noise of general stirring as the five other men in the room woke and realised the oddity of the situation. It was clear to Spock that this had never happened before, and no one was sure what to do. The schedule in this place was so rigorously enforced that none of them seemed to be able to cope with the idea of any disturbance to routine.

'Will we be punished if we don't go out?' Lamesh asked anxiously.

'Don't be silly,' Andresh rebuffed him. He got up and moved across the room, and there was the noise of the door's energy field being touched. 'See. The door's still locked. We couldn't go even if we wanted to.'

'But why wouldn't the bell ring?' Delash asked in bewilderment.

'Fire,' Valensh hazarded. 'War. Sickness…'

'Fire?' Lamesh echoed in alarm. 'And we're trapped in here?'

Spock shook his head quickly, indicating with swift signs to Delash that he could hear and smell no signs of fire. The suggestion of war suddenly seemed more apt, however, as his ears caught distant sounds of weapons fire. He had no idea how to sign this, so he sat still, listening intently, trying to ignore the wondering of those around him in order to best interpret the sounds he heard from outside.

There was a sudden sound of commotion close outside, and weapons fire again – and then the latent background noise of the force field dropped away, and someone ran into the room. Spock turned instantly. He – *_recognised*_ – that mix of emotions and impulses. He thought he even recognised the scent and the footfall – but he didn't dare to hope.

'It's a stranger,' Lamesh said quickly. 'I don't know – '

Then the man said, 'Spock!' and Spock recognised with a surge of relief the voice of his captain.

He got to his feet, moving towards him with one hand held out.

'Spock, thank God,' Kirk said. 'Finally… Are you all right? Have you been harmed?'

Spock reached out to touch him, feeling the wonderful familiarity of Starfleet material and Jim's solid flesh under his fingers before dropping his hands back to his sides.

'Spock, what's – What've they done to him?' he asked sharply, his attention moving to the others in the room.

'They blind and mute the chamber slaves,' Lamesh said, coming over to him. 'Are – you the one from his ship, sir? The friend? His captain?'

'Yes,' Kirk said distractedly. 'He's – Spock, is it true?'

Spock nodded silently.

'Is it reversible?'

He shrugged, then turned toward Lamesh, making a sign with his hand. He would have rather signed through Delash, but Delash, always the most reticent of the group, seemed to have dropped away to the back of the room at the sight of the captain.

'He says, maybe, maybe not,' Lamesh interpreted. 'He says, it's good to see you,' he translated again as Spock made more signs. 'He says, what's happened?'

Kirk twisted around, his focus suddenly sharpening. 'What? Did he hear something?'

Spock shook his head as Lamesh said, 'No, sir, I think he means, how did you find him, how did you get here?'

Spock nodded quickly, and Kirk replied, 'We've spent months searching for you, Spock. We've had all ships and bases on alert. Then someone heard a merchant saying something about a Vulcan slave at a manor on Villanesh 4 who helped his daughter somehow, and we came straight here.'

Spock nodded, a certain relaxation of relief sinking through his frame. Obviously helping the girl had been worth the pain of the punishment, since it had led to his discovery. Then he pointed to himself, and up towards the ceiling, with a questioning expression.

'Up,' Lamesh muttered. 'You want to go upstairs?' he asked confusedly.

'You want to beam up?' Kirk asked quickly. 'Is that it?'

Spock nodded swiftly, reaching out to Kirk's hand. He had no idea of how to sign for a doctor, so he touched his hand to his eyes and throat, and then traced the beginnings of the word 'McCoy' on Kirk's palm.

'You want to see Bones? I'm sure you do,' Kirk said. 'Hang on.' There was the noise of his communicator opening, then he said, 'Scotty, I've got him, but he needs to go to sick bay. Stay down here and secure things. I want whoever's in charge held to account for this. Kirk out.' He closed his communicator, and said, 'You seem to understand him a little. Are you willing to beam up with us?'

'I – have no will, sir,' Lamesh said slowly, taking a step backwards. 'I'm a slave. You'd best ask Master Robbesh.'

'I don't acknowledge slavery,' Kirk said tightly. 'If I was going to ask anyone's permission I'd ask yours.'

Spock signed again, and Lamesh said, 'If you're sure – I don't want punishment… He says to beam up, and it's *_your*_ responsibility, Captain.'

'If anyone asks, I did it against your will,' Kirk said softly. 'I've got a weapon – you haven't. I'm kidnapping you, like it or not. Spock, are you ready?'

Spock hesitated, turning towards the others in the room and reaching out a hand to them.

'Don't worry about us,' Delash said, but there was sadness in his voice. 'It's our life.'

Spock pressed his lips together, and shook his head, signing, *_Delash, come_.*

'What, come with you?'

Spock nodded, signing, *_You understand more than Lamesh_.*

'Well, that's true,' Delash said reluctantly. 'He – does miss the subtleties sometimes.'

'What's he saying?' Kirk asked impatiently. 'We don't have a lot of time here.'

'He wants me to come too, sir,' Delash said awkwardly. 'I – sometimes understand him better than Lamesh.'

'Oh, what the hell,' Kirk muttered. There was a short pause, then he opened his communicator again, and said, '_Enterprise_, Kirk here. Eight to beam up.'

******

When Spock materialised into the familiar scents and sounds of the _Enterprise_ transporter room it was as if a tension that had been holding him rigid for six months had suddenly melted away. He stepped down into the room without waiting for assistance, confident of what was around him, and allowing himself a brief indulgence by stepping forward to run his hands over the transporter controls, ignoring the confusion of the operator on the other side of the desk.

'Come on. Let's get to sick bay,' Kirk said, touching his arm.

Spock nodded, but he firmly moved Kirk's hand from his arm. He was used enough to managing without guidance, and he was sure that he didn't need it now, with seven sets of footsteps to follow.

'You're sure you don't need help?' Kirk asked him.

'He's never been allowed guidance, sir,' Lamesh explained for him. 'He can manage fine.'

Spock inclined his head in agreement, then began moving toward the door, impatient to see the doctor. The journey through the corridors was simple with the small group gathered around him.

'Spock, you've got an entourage!' McCoy said in a delighted voice as they finally entered sickbay. 'By God, it's good to see you!'

Spock signed, then Lamesh said, 'What's that? I didn't catch it.'

Spock signed again, and Lamesh translated. 'He says, good to see you too. Are you the doctor, sir?'

'Spock?' McCoy asked curiously, coming forward with his scanner whirring. 'What's wrong? You can't talk?'

'They blinded him and muted him,' Kirk said bitterly, pushing through the small group around Spock.

'Blinded?' McCoy echoed in horror. 'Good God, Spock, come and sit down.'

Suddenly Spock found himself being hustled across the room, and he stood firmly, shaking his head. He signed, and got no response, so he clapped his hands sharply as he had learnt to do to get attention.

'Sorry, Spockesh,' Delash said quickly. 'I'm looking now.'

Spock signed again.

'He doesn't need to sit,' Delash interpreted. 'He – Sorry, Spockesh, do it again… Blindness – or muteness – doesn't mean he needs to sit. He's fine standing. He says – don't treat him as if he's sick – he isn't sick.'

'Maybe,' McCoy said gruffly. 'But I need to examine him, and for that I want him on the examination table – so that means I want some privacy. Jim, will you take this lot next door and ask M'Benga to look them over?'

'Sure, Bones,' Kirk nodded.

_*Delash here_,* Spock signed quickly.

'He wants me to stay, sir,' Delash said. 'So I can speak for him.'

'That's fine,' McCoy nodded. 'But the rest of you – out. Now, you – what's your name?'

'Delash, sir,' he said.

'Do you know what they did to him?'

'I don't know, sir.' He turned his attention to Spock, watching his hands. 'Heat, I think. Something small, touching his eyes and throat with heat.'

'O-kay,' McCoy said slowly. 'Spock, can you get up on the table? Do you need help?'

Spock shook his head, finding the table quickly and getting onto it. He listened to the noise of the scanner, trying not to let his anxiety show in his face. Perhaps Delash would know what he was feeling – he had become at expert at reading body language that Spock didn't know he was giving out, just so that he could understand what he might want to be saying. McCoy, thankfully, was not nearly at good at reading his minute expressions.

'Heat's right, Spock,' he murmured as he scanned. 'It looks like they burned out your optic nerves and the nerves that control your vocal cords. They've just been destroyed, completely.'

Spock pressed his lips together, frustration surging through him. He didn't know how to sign to ask what could be done. But Delash asked anyway, 'Can you fix it, Doctor?'

'I – don't know,' McCoy said reluctantly. 'Not straight out. I know some people who are experts in nerve regrowth – human nerve regrowth, at least. I'll have to talk to them about it. Spock, can you touch type?' he asked curiously.

Spock nodded. He signed, and Delash said, 'Can he sit up, sir?'

'Sure,' McCoy nodded. 'There's nothing physical I can do right now. Spock, I don't think we have anything portable,' he said as Spock sat, 'but if you can touch type you can write down what you want to ask and have the computer read it out.'

'He can write with a pen, too,' Delash said as Spock signed. 'He can try, anyway.'

'I'll look up some sign language too – we might be able to expand your vocabulary, Spock.'

Spock nodded, and signed again, holding up his wrist with the band on it. He had had momentary qualms on beaming up, in case leaving the vicinity of the mansion set off the incapacitating charge that the band held, but no such thing had happened.

'I should be able to cut that off,' McCoy muttered. 'Hang on,' he said. He moved across the room, rummaged in a cabinet, and then returned. 'Here – hold out your arm.'

Spock raised his arm, and McCoy took his hand. A moment's work with the tool he had fetched, and the band clattered to the floor.

'Let me do yours, too,' the doctor said to Delash. He removed the band quickly, then turned back to Spock. 'Anything else, Spock?' he asked, and Spock signed quickly.

'He says, look here,' said Delash.

Spock lifted his kilt a little, showing the thick scar that covered his left thigh.

'Jeez,' McCoy murmured, running his scanner over it. 'I guess that's painful.'

'A little,' Delash interpreted.

'What was it? Hot water?'

'A kettle of _ny'ar_, sir,' Delash said. 'I saw it happen. It wasn't long after he came, and he knocked the table with his side, and the _ny'ar_ spilt right down it. It goes all the way up over his hip.'

'Did no one treat it when it happened?'

Spock shook his head, and Delash said, 'We took him and sprayed cold water on it, but no more than that. He had to learn not to be clumsy. They don't treat things for the blind ones if they do it through clumsiness.'

'Well, I thought you seemed pretty capable,' McCoy muttered. 'But now I see why. I can't do anything straight off, Spock. I'll need to clone some skin from your other thigh and graft it in place of the scar. Have you got anything else that needs looking at?'

Spock considered, then touched a hand to his back.

'They whipped him a week ago,' Delash said. 'It's still healing. He's pretty badly scarred there too – they've beaten him before.'

McCoy lifted his top, drawing in breath through clenched teeth when he saw the state of Spock's back. It was covered with tight scars from top to bottom, that were layered over with more recent scabbed and infected welts. 'It looks like it's been treated at least,' he muttered. 'But it's not pretty, Spock. I can clean up the more recent ones, but you might need some grafts there too if you want to be free of scars. Is that it now?'

Spock dropped his head a little, tracing his hand over the surface of the examination couch. He needed to tell McCoy something he had never even revealed to Lamesh or Delash, and he hardly knew how.

'He doesn't like to say,' Delash said, his attention fixed on him.

'You don't say,' McCoy said with gentle sarcasm. 'Spock, what is it? Is it too complex to sign? Do you want me to get a keyboard for you?'

Spock shook his head. He pressed his lips together, then turned to Delash and signed, *_My master_.*

'Lord Milaresh, or Robbesh?' Delash asked.

Spock signed, *_My high master_.*

'What?' Delash asked. 'Did he injure you?'

Spock bit his lip into his mouth, then very slowly lifted his hands, using a sign he only had rare occasion to use. He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, and then pushed his straightened index finger on his other hand through the hole.

'Not *_you*_, surely?' Delash hissed.

Spock sat still, waiting for his shock to calm. Just telling Delash seemed to make all the memories flood back around him. Delash reached out to touch his shoulder, and he almost flinched away, before controlling his reaction and accepting the comfort.

'I – just didn't think you were the type he'd do that to,' Delash faltered. 'You have too much dignity.'

Spock shrugged, touching his eyes briefly. He felt as if he had very little dignity at this moment, confessing to what had happened to him. He was grateful in a way that he wouldn't be able to see McCoy's face as he told him.

'You still have dignity, even if you are blind,' Delash said firmly.

'What is it?' McCoy asked curiously. 'What's he telling you?'

'Please,' Delash said as Spock cringed minutely. 'Let him tell me it all first. How many times, Spockesh?'

Spock shook his head, then shrugged, making a revolving motion with his hand.

'You don't know how many – but a lot? And he hurt you?'

Spock nodded, performing a more complex series of signs that appeared to be full of emotion, or at least of movement and drama.

'For God's sake,' McCoy said impatiently. 'I'm the doctor here – will you tell me what was done to him?'

Spock closed his eyes briefly, then turned towards Delash and nodded.

'His master – buggered him,' Delash said carefully. 'It was forced, and he was violent.' He watched Spock signing again, and said, 'The first time, it was as a punishment – he hasn't got the words to tell me why. So – he was beaten and tied down, and it was very violent and painful. The other times it was – ' He paused as Spock stopped to consider his words. 'There were no women in the house – so he means it was out of need, essentially,' he interpreted, and Spock nodded. 'It was still painful,' he continued, watching Spock intently, 'but it wasn't so violent, and he wasn't tied. There were other times too, he had to use his mouth, or his hand.'

McCoy exhaled slowly, unsure of what to say. He couldn't imagine the emotional trauma that such an abuse would force on the highly private Vulcan. Ordinarily he would prescribe counselling – but Spock could not even speak.

'Spock, is it likely that he had any sexually transmitted diseases?' he asked. Best to focus on physical concerns for now.

Spock shrugged, signing again, and Delash said, 'He had many encounters with many women – so perhaps. And often there were two men – the master and his friend.'

'Okay,' McCoy said carefully. 'The first time, when he was very violent – did you bleed at all?'

'A little,' Delash interpreted. 'He's not sure how much, because he can't see. It *_hurt*_ – a lot.'

'Okay,' McCoy said again. 'What about the other times? Did you bleed then?'

'Perhaps,' Delash said, watching Spock's hands. 'It wasn't as painful. He sometimes...' He hesitated, watching Spock closely. 'He poured something… rubbed it on. What is that, Spockesh? What – oil?'

Spock nodded once.

'Right,' McCoy said softly. 'Well, I'll scan you for any diseases, Spock. I've already run a base scan that hasn't shown anything, but I'll go into more depth, just in case. And – I'm afraid I'll need to examine you physically. How long ago did this happen?'

'The first time was – four months ago,' Delash translated. 'Oh Gods, Spockesh,' he said suddenly. 'That night after you saved the Lavorian girl. He took you in her place, didn't he?'

Spock nodded slowly, his head cast down.

'I thought he'd just beaten you! Spockesh, why didn't you tell me?'

Spock shook his head. He didn't know how to reply to that. *_You helped me_,* he signed.

'Spock, do you want to be alone when I examine you?' McCoy asked carefully.

Spock pressed his lips together, considering. He had spent so long in such intimate company with all six of his roommates that having Delash there did not seem too much of an intrusion.

_*I need you to speak_,* he signed. *_But don't look_.*

'I'll stand at your head and face you,' Delash promised. 'Don't worry,' he said quietly. 'This is the last time – isn't it, Doctor?'

McCoy hesitated. 'I can't promise I won't need to examine you again, Spock,' he said. 'But I'll try to get it all over with this time.'

******

Spock slipped off the examination table with McCoy's reassurance that there was no treatment he needed but a little more time to heal. It had been too long since that first time for him to need invasive treatment. Even he had needed it, he was not sure if he could have borne lying there being touched in that way ever again.

'I've recorded all the evidence I need, so I shouldn't need to subject you to that again,' McCoy promised him.

Spock nodded, signing, *_May I go?*_

He didn't want to spend any more time in sick bay – it suddenly did nothing but remind him of all those times of helplessness in his master's bedchamber, forcing himself to lie motionless under his heavy, sweat-sheened body.

'Just let me take a few more scans of your eyes and throat,' McCoy said at Delash's translation.

_*My clothes_,* he signed. The sick-bay robe he had changed into was far too flimsy for his liking.

'He wants his clothes,' Delash said.

'I'll send someone for your uniform,' McCoy told him, going to the door and passing on the order to someone in the outer room. 'Now, just come over here and sit down,' he said, grasping Spock's arm.

Spock stiffened, uncurling the doctor's fingers. His initial induction into managing without assistance had not been pleasant, but he was grateful now that it allowed him to function more independently – as long as those around him remembered that he could.

'There's a chair on the other side of the room by the medicine cabinet,' McCoy told him, restraining his natural urge to snipe at the Vulcan. 'Do you remember?'

Spock nodded, moving swiftly to the chair and sitting down.

'Just hold still for a few minutes while I take some more exhaustive scans.'

Spock sat patiently as McCoy fussed around him with various instruments – then finally the doctor straightened up and moved away.

'Are you finished?' Delash asked as Spock signed.

'All done now – you're free to go, Spock. Your clothes are over on the counter by the door.'

Spock nodded, moving quickly over to the counter and finding the familiar feel of his uniform waiting for him. He changed quickly, pulling on boots over feet that had been bare for months.

'He wants to see his master,' Delash said in a confused tone as Spock signed. 'Your master, Spockesh? Surely – '

Spock shook his head, pressing his lips together in annoyance. He would have to create a whole new realm of signs to describe this new environment.

'You mean Jim?' McCoy asked, and Spock nodded. 'Well, he's waiting for you in my office. Are you taking your friend?'

Spock turned his head in Delash's direction, and nodded.

'Just let me scan him to check he's well,' McCoy muttered, as the warble of the scanner began. 'Have you got any problems you want me to look at, Delash?'

'No, sir – none at all,' he said quickly. 'I haven't been beaten in a long while, and I haven't been ill, either.'

'I'm reading a lot of scar tissue here, in your back and in your legs' McCoy said. 'Let me just look at you – '

There was silence, but Spock could feel a strong sense of reluctance from Delash. He reached out to touch the doctor, shaking his head.

'He says, wait,' Delash said awkwardly. 'He says – I don't have to let you look at me. You're not my master.'

'Well, that may be so, but you've got a lot a scar tissue binding the movement in your back, and something's been done to the ligaments in your knees. If you let me look at it I might be able to treat it.'

Spock touched Delash's arm, and signed, *_What's wrong?*_

'There – are just some things I don't want to remember, Spockesh,' Delash said quietly.

Spock signed, *_If you remove the pain in your body, you won't remember so well. He can help you. What happened?*_ he asked.

There was a long silence, then Delash said finally, 'I tried once to escape – years and years ago when I was new to the place. I was caught. Master had me punished. They – hurt me very badly. It was – a very bad year that year. That's why I work in the house now instead of outside.'

Spock nodded slowly. *_You can't run_,* he realised suddenly. He had a vague awareness that Delash moved relatively slowly, but had never really considered why.

'No, I can't,' he said quietly.

Spock nodded again, acknowledging that Delash obviously did not want to talk about it. Presumably from what the doctor had said they had somehow deliberately injured the ligaments in Delash's knees in order to prevent him from running.

Then he signed, *_Ask him, must he do it now?*_

Delash asked, and McCoy said, 'That scar tissue's at least ten years old – a little more time won't change anything.'

Spock nodded, signing, *_See him later. He'll help you. Be strong for a short time and you will be good in the future.*_

'You trust him well enough, don't you?' Delash said.

_*He's my friend_,* Spock signed.

'I've just about given up trying to understand those signs, Spock,' McCoy muttered half-apologetically. 'I have no idea what you're saying.'

'He says I should let you treat me – later,' Delash explained. 'I should trust you.'

'Well, that's gratifying at least,' the doctor said dryly. 'I hope you'll take his advice. Go on, Spock,' he said, touching a hand to his back with an unwonted gentleness in his tone. 'Go see Jim. I'll keep looking over this data and see what I can do for you.'

Spock nodded, turning toward the door.

*_Delash_,* he signed, and Delash said quickly, 'Yes, I'm coming.'

_*Watch for me_,* he signed, suddenly unconfident about his knowledge of the space about him. He *_thought*_ he knew it, but it was a long time since he had last been in this room.

'It's all clear,' Delash reassured him. 'Don't worry – I'll look out for you.'

Spock nodded, moving forward to the door.

'Will you tell him – about what you suffered?' Delash asked softly as he followed him.

Spock dropped his head for a second, then signed, *_Maybe.*_

Telling McCoy had been hard enough. The thought of confessing all that had been done to him to Jim, through sign language and Delash's translation, was too much to consider.

He crossed the space to McCoy's office, and heard the door swish open in front of him.

'Spock,' Kirk said warmly as he entered. 'Come sit down.'

'Just here,' Delash said quietly. 'A chair on the near side of the desk he's sitting at.'

_*Are there two chairs_?* Spock asked.

'No – oh, there's one over there. I'll – '

'I'll get that for you,' Kirk said quickly, rising to fetch the chair and putting it beside the other one.

'Is this your master, Spockesh?' Delash asked in an undertone as Spock found his chair and sat down.

Spock raised one eyebrow, shaking his head. *_I am free here_,* he signed. The only sign he had for 'free' was a slightly derogatory one, but it was one Delash would understand.

Delash laughed. 'Then you're one of *_them* _now?'

Spock nodded, a noticeable look of relief on his face at the idea.

'Must I call him sir?' Delash asked. 'Must I call *_you*_ sir?'

Spock raised an eyebrow again, shaking his head and signing, *_You are free too. Stay here, and you will stay free_.*

'I can stay here?' Delash asked in surprise.

Spock nodded, turning towards Kirk, waiting for him to elucidate. There was a long silence, then Kirk said, 'If you wanted to stay, and you asked for asylum, I can't see that you'd be denied it, considering the conditions you've escaped from. You'd stay on this ship until we could find somewhere for you to go, then there are people who'd help you set up your new life.'

'I – can only thank you,' Delash said slowly. 'I never thought I would see freedom again.'

'Well, here it is,' Kirk smiled. 'All around you. Spock, I don't know what command's going to say about the way we've opened diplomatic relations with this planet – but to be honest I'm so glad to have you back that I don't really care.'

Spock nodded, turning towards Delash and signing quickly.

'He says he's very glad to be here,' Delash said. 'He had given up hope of seeing you again. He didn't think you'd be able to find him.'

'Does he really say all that in those few signs?' Kirk asked in wonder.

'No, not exactly,' Delash admitted. 'I interpret, I don't just repeat it. I try to understand what he wants to say, not what he *_can*_ say.'

'What's that?' Kirk asked as Spock signed again.

'He says I'm good,' Delash said rather bashfully.

'Coming from Spock, I know that's a compliment. Spock, did Bones say he could fix what they did to you?'

Spock half shook his head, turning towards Delash for elucidation.

'He said he will look at his data. The nerves have been destroyed. He needs to talk to people who know about such things.'

There was a brief silence, then Kirk said, 'I'm sorry, Spock. I can't imagine how frustrating it must be…'

'The muteness is more frustrating right now,' Delash translated. 'But – Sorry, Spockesh, I don't understand…'

Spock signed again, slowly and carefully trying to create a sign for the word.

'Over…' Delash murmured. 'Come here… Oh! It's easier to overcome than the blindness,' he realised, and Spock nodded. 'He can learn more signs to talk with. But the blindness… it hurts him in his heart,' he said slowly, watching Spock intently. 'Spockesh, I'm sorry,' he said softly, touching his arm. 'I thought you'd grown used to it.'

Spock tilted his head, then shook it briefly. He couldn't imagine growing used to being in constant darkness.

'Spock, I need to try to get a report from you on what happened down there,' Kirk said gently. 'Do you feel able?'

Spock paused. Jim didn't know everything that had happened to him, but he would have to put it in the report that Jim would then read. But there was little choice. It was his duty both to Starfleet and to everyone else on the planet suffering as he had to report the truth. He nodded, and signed to Delash.

'He can – what's that, Spockesh?' Delash asked as Spock mimed moving his fingers on something.

'Type,' Kirk realised. 'He can type on the computer. Well, that's good, Spock. How about we leave that until later, then – you try to get a report written up for me, and we can take it from there?'

Spock nodded, feeling illogically as if he had been given a reprieve. He turned to Delash, touching his arm and then touching his own stomach.

'Yes, I suppose we missed breakfast, didn't we?' Delash said in an amused tone. 'I am hungry.'

'Well, it's coming up for lunchtime ship time,' Kirk smiled. 'What say we go on down to the rec room and get something to eat?'

Spock nodded, signing, and Delash translated, 'It's a long time since he's eaten good food.'


	8. Chapter 7

7.

It was much later in the day when Spock managed to persuade Delash to undergo treatment in the sick bay, and he entered the familiar surroundings of his quarters to write the report that Kirk wanted. He sat in the chair behind his desk and inhaled slowly, taking in the familiar scent of his rooms. It was *_good*_ to be back in his own, private, inviolable space, in the knowledge that no one could demand his obedience and service at any moment. It was so good to regain possession of his own self.

Finally he pushed his sentiment aside and turned his computer on, going steadily through the steps needed to open up a word processing document, taking the small sounds the computer made as signs that he was doing it correctly. Then he settled his fingers lightly on the keyboard, and began to type.

He was close to finishing when the door chime sounded, and he pressed the release button on the desk, fixing a memory of the last words he had written in his head.

'Spock, it's Jim,' Kirk said, coming into the room. 'Have you finished that report?'

Spock signed, *_Almost*_, and waited to see if Jim understood him.

Kirk hesitated, then said, 'Nearly? Is that what you said?'

Spock nodded.

'Is is all right if I wait here while you finish it?'

He nodded again, putting his fingers back on the keyboard and continuing to type without further attempts at communication. It only took a few minutes to complete the final few pages, and then he sat back in his chair, trying to indicate to Kirk that he was finished.

'Done?' Kirk asked, and he nodded. 'Want me to read it through?'

Spock pressed his lips together. A large part of him was reluctant to sit here while Kirk read the graphic account of the abuses he had suffered. But there was no other way, and without being able to use voice control or see commands on the screen it had been all he could do to open up a document and type – he had no way of checking what he had written. He had to exercise control over his inhibitions and allow Kirk to help him. Finally he nodded, turning the screen around to face Kirk's chair.

He sat waiting, listening to Kirk's breathing as he read. It took a little more than five minutes, and Spock could feel Kirk's emotions growing stronger as he read. Finally he turned the screen off, and sat in silence.

Spock waited, since he could not open the conversation himself.

'Spock, I – I don't know what to say,' Kirk said finally, in a voice fractured with grief. 'I'm – sorry. I'm sorry we couldn't get to you sooner. I can't imagine – '

Spock shrugged minutely, shaking his head.

'I guess Bones knows?' Kirk asked, and he nodded. 'You don't want to talk about it, do you?'

Spock shook his head, turning away a little. The fact that he _*could not_* talk about it was immaterial. He had no desire at all to speak of what had happened to him.

'Okay, that's fine,' Kirk murmured. 'Spock – do you think Bones can fix your eyes?'

Spock shrugged.

'I guess he's trying to work out a way, though?' he asked.

Spock nodded. There was a silence, and he could feel Kirk's eyes on him. His sympathy was palpable. Spock sighed. It would be a long time, he imagined, before he stopped garnering this reaction. He welcomed the fact that his captain cared about what had happened – but he wanted to bury it deep down inside of him and never let it out to anyone. Sympathy meant discussion and remembrance, and all he wanted to do was to forget.

_*Would you like a drink?*_ he signed.

'Something to drink?' Kirk asked, and Spock nodded. 'Sure, but let me fix it…'

Spock shook his head. He had fixed enough drinks over the past months to feel confident of being able to do so here. He moved over to his cooking alcove, picking up the tins and showing them to Kirk.

'Oh – er – coffee, please,' Kirk said as he realised what Spock was trying to do. 'That's the one in your left hand.'

Spock nodded, turning back to the shelf. Thankfully the process was simple enough that he managed to make two cups of coffee without problem. He did not hold the illusion that everything would be as easy now he was back on the ship. Life, in many ways, had been very simple as a slave, largely limited to the preparation of drinks and to various manual tasks. Life on a starship would be far different, and he was aware that it would be impossible to return to his post on the ship without the ability to either see or speak.

He came back across the room and carefully placed Kirk's drink on the desk in front of him. He sat, taking a sip of his own drink. It had been a long time since he had last drunk something as hot and tasteful as coffee, and the sensation of it in his mouth startled him.

'Good?' Kirk asked with a smile in his voice.

Spock nodded.

The intercom whistled, and Spock reached out to it, finding the button after a brief moment of uncertainty.

'Spock, it's McCoy,' the doctor's voice came through the filter. 'I know you can't reply, but – '

'I'm with him, Bones,' Kirk said quickly. 'If that'll help.'

'Great, Jim,' McCoy said with an element of relief in his voice. 'I've been talking to some people about Spock's condition – '

At that, Spock rapped his knuckles sharply on the desk, his lips pressed together in displeasure.

'Sorry, Spock,' McCoy said quickly. 'I didn't mean to discount you, but it's difficult talking on the intercom to someone who can't reply. As I was saying, I've been talking to some people about your condition. Do you mind if I come down there and talk with you face to face? It'll be easier.'

Spock shook his head quickly, and Kirk said, 'No, he says that's fine, Bones.'

'All right – I'll be down there in just a minute.'

Spock nodded, and flicked the intercom off. He took another sip of his coffee, grateful that his relationship with Kirk was such that the silence was not uncomfortable. He was relieved, however, when the door opened to admit McCoy. He was eager to know what the doctor had found out.

'Spock, Jim,' McCoy said briefly on coming through the door.

Spock nodded a greeting, then turned his face towards the doctor attentively as he pulled up a chair.

'Well, Spock,' McCoy said, registering his impatience to hear what he had to say. 'I've been speaking to some of the top neurologists in this part of the galaxy, and it looks positive. They're studying your scans as we speak. There's a high chance that if nerve regeneration is possible I'll be able to do it here, on the ship.'

Spock's response was evident in the relief that seemed to sink through his body. He nodded, and then signed, *_Go on_*.

McCoy understood the simple sign, and laughed.

'You know, Spock, if this works I won't have to get to know your sign language,' he smiled. 'But _*that_*, I understood. Basically, the process is this. As long as there's a residual amount of the nerve fibre left – and I believe that there is – then I can sample it and grow replacements in the lab. Then all we have to do it operate to insert the new tissue where the original was burned away.'

Spock's eyebrow rose at the statement, *_All we have to do_*, but McCoy's optimism was at least encouraging.

'That's the good side,' McCoy said, his voice becoming more serious. 'But it's not going to be easy. If the grafts take, it's not going to be an instant fix. Things will seem very strange for a while – especially with your vision. Your brain's hugely adaptable, and that's to your advantage – it's given up large areas of your visual cortex to augmenting your other senses. But if you get your sight back, your brain will have to readapt – it could be some weeks before you really feel that you understand visual images again.'

Spock nodded, trying not to let that idea disturb him too much.

'The same might go for your speech,' McCoy continued. 'As far as I can tell, you're doing great with the sign language. I don't understand a word of it mind, but your roommates do.  
But you don't even try to form words orally. Yes, I know,' he nodded as Spock reacted. 'It's not logical to expect people to lipread if they're reliant on a universal translator to understand your language. But that's not true here on the ship. If you form words orally alongside your signing it might just help people understand. And it will help you when I work out how to fix your vocal cords.'

Spock nodded again, forming the words, *_I will try*_ with his lips and tongue. McCoy touched his arm, and Spock could feel the emotions associated with a smile through the touch.

'I won't pretend I can lipread, Spock – but we'll get better at it, over time.'

Spock nodded again. He could see the sense in McCoy's suggestion. His lips and tongue felt odd and unreliable after so many months of disuse. He imagined that even if McCoy restored his ability to speak tomorrow it would be much longer before he could communicate with the fluency of the past.

'How long's this going to take, Bones?' Kirk asked seriously.

'Well, it's not going to be quick,' the doctor said reluctantly. 'The neurologists I spoke to will need to study samples of Spock's tissue-type, since it's not a straight human or Vulcan genome. That means physically sending them a sample to examine. Then, if they decide that it's possible, they'll have to relay the information back to me on how to culture the tissue, and it'll take some time to grow. It could be a good few months before we can attempt the operation, Spock.'

Spock nodded gravely. He had not expected the process to be instantaneous. The fact that there might be a process at all was enough for him.

******

Spock had not expected to find himself surrounded by the members of his seven quite so much on the ship, but he found himself curiously more disabled in this haven of technology and automation. He was capable of preparing certain foods and drinks from fresh ingredients, but he could not use the replicator. After cultivating an intimate knowledge of the layout of the Milaresh mansion without ever having seen more of it than one room, he found the _Enterprise_, which he knew unconsciously by sight, almost impossible to navigate without help. In the mansion, he had been expected to initiate communications with no one. His task was to listen, and follow orders. Here, he was permitted needs and desires, but he could not communicate them. Even with Delash at his side, the range of his language was limited to the needs of a slave, and the frustrating process of creating language had to begin again.

Delash, together with Salensh, had been assigned quarters very near Spock's own. The other four members of his seven were quartered in two rooms on a different deck. After living for so long in a group Spock was aware of a certain level of apprehension from the men at being separated, even if only into three separate rooms. Delash and Salensh had become his most constant companions in consequence of their placing, and he often found himself with Delash from morning to evening. He could tell that McCoy and Kirk regarded the man with a certain degree of uncertainty, if only because he was a representation of Spock's captivity, but he was invaluable to Spock in his role of guide and interpreter.

'Spock, they say Robbesh is on board,' Delash said excitedly as soon as he entered Spock's quarters that morning.

Spock raised an eyebrow, signing, _*Robbesh? Why?_*

'I don't know,' Delash said quickly.

Spock hesitated, then said, _*Take me to him._*

'You want to see him?' Delash asked. 'Are you sure?'

Spock nodded firmly.

'Must I come?' he asked hesitantly.

Spock frowned. _*Robbesh is a good man_,* he signed. Then, _*He cannot take you back.*_

'You're sure?' Delash asked doubtfully, and Spock nodded firmly.

_*I am not afraid,_* he signed, and Delash laughed.

'Oh, Spockesh, when are you _*ever_* afraid?' he asked.

Spock raised an eyebrow, thinking of all those times in Milaresh's room, prey to both Milaresh and Mavenesh, waiting for that first touch. Yes, he had been afraid then. Against all logic, he had been afraid, again and again, more than waiting for the first blow of the whip.

_*Take me to him,_* he repeated. _*I want to see him._*

Delash sighed, and went to the communicator.

'Delash, for Commander Spock, to Captain Kirk,' he said clearly.

'Kirk here,' came the immediate response. He had grown used to these communications carried out through a third party. 'What is it, Spock?'

'He would like to see Master Robbesh,' Delash said. 'He's on board, isn't he?'

Kirk hesitated, then said, 'Yes, I'm with him now. But, Spock, are you sure you want to?'

Spock nodded vigorously, and Delash relayed, 'Yes, Captain, he's very definite about it.'

Spock distinctly heard the captain sigh, and then say through the intercom, 'We're in Briefing Room Seven. Bring him over, Delash.'

******

To Robbesh, seeing Commander Spock in this environment was like a partial flashback to the time he had first seen him on the starbase – erect of stature, with an element of dignity that he had never quite lost, wearing that smart, simple uniform he had worn at that time. His next view of the Vulcan after that was naked, shivering and bewildered, being led trussed and blindfolded from a transporter cage. He had never quite been able to shake his regret at taking the sight from those piercingly intelligent eyes, and muting that concise, cultivated voice. But Spock was still blind and mute now, as he walked into the briefing room with the slave Delash at his side, even if he was erect and dignified and dressed in uniform.

The Vulcan walked toward the briefing room table, hands by his side, as he had been taught, and stopped precisely five centimetres away from it. Robbesh could not help an element of pride at his skill. Perhaps he had blinded the Vulcan, but he had taught him well, and, until that incident with the Lavoresh girl, he had been a fine chamber slave. He had been fond of this one from the start.

'Sarkesh,' he said, taking a step toward him. 'It's good to see you.'

Spock nodded. He held no malice toward Robbesh, despite what he had done to him. But Kirk interrupted coldly, 'His name is Spock.'

'Of course,' Robbesh said, abashed. 'Commander Spock.'

Spock nodded again, and then signed quickly, _*My eyes, my throat. Can it be reversed?_*

Delash translated, and there was silence. Then Robbesh said, 'No, Spock. It is unprecedented for a chamber slave to be allowed to regain his sight or speech.'

Spock nodded, his lips pursed.

_*Are you good?_* he asked.

There was a moment of silence, then Delash said, 'Spock, do you mean, how has he fared since we were released?'

Spock nodded swiftly.

'Oh, I'm fine,' Robbesh said. 'Lord Milaresh was in a fair old rage, but he knew I couldn't do anything in the face of energy weapons and Federation power. I think he knows he's lucky to get away with what he did. Everything's settling again now – but his stock's diminished,' he said pointedly. 'The household's suffering from that.'

Spock's eyebrow rose at the word *_stock_*, but he could not condemn Robbesh for his language choice.

_*Why are you here?_* he asked.

'Oh, I'm acting as an interim between your Federation and my master,' Robbesh said on translation. 'Just sorting out some details – confirming your seven's right to asylum here. Lord Milaresh has absolutely no right to demand any of you back – '

'And if he tried he'd have a fight he couldn't win on his hands,' Kirk broke in belligerently.

'Yes, exactly,' Robbesh said tolerantly. He was well-used to dealing with impetuous and aggressive superiors. 'You're perfectly safe, Delash, don't worry,' he said, in response to Delash's anxious reaction. 'But the Federation is demanding a certain amount of recompense from Milaresh – which they won't get, because they have no jurisdiction. And Lord Milaresh is demanding a certain amount of recompense from the Federation for stock taken – which he won't get either. It's just details – business details – that need to be straightened out.'

_*Business details…_* It was all a business to Milaresh, and to Robbesh to some extent. The trading and enslavement of living, sentient beings was nothing but a completely acceptable process. Milaresh's only mistake had been on setting his sights on a prize beyond his own planet. Without the vast, protective net of the Federation around him, Spock would have been doomed to a life in enforced servitude, with absolutely no hope, and no right, of release.

Spock pushed those thoughts from his mind before they could begin to bother him. He nodded, getting to his feet. He had an appointment to keep in sickbay, and could spare no more time for the man who had briefly been his commanding officer. In lieu of speech he extended his hand, human-fashion, towards Robbesh, and the man took it, shaking it warmly as he had seen these humans do.

'I will miss you, Spock,' he said sincerely. 'I had grown to like you. But I am glad that your people took you back. Lord Milaresh's manor was no place for you.'

Spock nodded. He could not disagree. He turned to give a brief nod of acknowledgement to Kirk, signing, _*I must go. I am needed._*

Delash translated, expanding appropriately on what Spock would have said if he could.

'Oh, of course, the tissue samples,' Kirk nodded, saying pointedly to Robbesh, 'Our doctor is doing all he can to restore Spock's stolen abilities.'

'I am glad,' Robbesh said smoothly, not rising to the barbed tone of Kirk's statement. 'I wish you luck, Spock.'

Spock nodded, then turned and left the room, and Master Robbesh, behind him.

******

Spock walked into sickbay with Delash at his side, listening attentively for the signs of a medical attendant anywhere nearby.

'Oh, Mr Spock,' Nurse Chapel's crisp voice said, and he heard her boots clack across the floor as she came to meet him. 'You've come to give the tissue samples?'

Spock nodded. Human communication protocols were odd. She could have no doubt that this was the reason why he had come, since he had a prearranged appointment, but still she had felt the need to pose it as a question.

'Well, I'll just go get what I need,' she said. 'Go on through into the examination room. I'll be in in a moment.'

Spock nodded again, listening as she moved away from him, then going carefully towards the door to the examination room.

'Is she your woman, Spock?' Delash asked in a low tone as they entered the room.

Spock's eyebrow rose.

_*Who?_* he asked.

'Her. The nurse. Christine.'

Spock shook his head. How did he explain the relationship, or lack of it, between him and Miss Chapel? He did not think it was something that he could explain in words, let alone with the crudity of a self-made sign language.

'Really?' Delash asked, the surprise obvious in his voice. 'I just thought – The way she looks at you.'

Spock shrugged, wondering briefly in what way she had looked at him. For the thousandth time he wished uselessly and illogically for the sight of his eyes, just to see one familiar face…

He shook his head as the nurse re-entered the room.

'All right,' she said brightly, with no sense that she had been being talked about just a second before. 'I've got what I need, Mr Spock. All I need from you is a little blood, and the tissue samples. Is that all right with you?'

Spock nodded quickly.

'Can you get up onto the couch, then?' she asked him, restraining from touching him to guide him.

Spock nodded again. He took a step forward, then on an impulse which he could not quite explain, turned to Delash, and signed, _*You go. I will be fine_.*

'Are – you sure, Spock?' Delash asked with concern.

Spock nodded, touching the man briefly on the arm in reassurance.

_*I will be fine,_* he repeated.

Delash hesitated for one more second, then echoed Spock's gesture by touching his arm, and left the room.

Chapel was silent for a moment, and then said cautiously, 'Was there a reason you wanted to be left alone, Mr Spock? Did you have any medical concerns?'

Spock shook his head, going forward to the examination table and climbing onto it.

'All right. I'll just level out the table,' she said, swinging the upright table back until it became a horizontal bed. 'This shouldn't take long, Mr Spock.'

Spock nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

'First bit's the easy bit,' she said. 'Just a hypo for the blood sample.'

Spock nodded again, feeling the hypo against his arm as she carefully drew a sample into the chamber at the end.

'That's done,' she said, laying the hypo down with a clack on the table beside the bed. 'Now, the tissue samples. You'll need to hold very still for this, Mr Spock.'

Spock frowned minutely. If he could not move, he could not communicate.

'Don't worry,' she said quickly, interpreting his concern. 'I should be able to do it very quickly. I'll tell you when to hold still, and when you can move again.'

Spock nodded again. He lay listening to the small sounds of her moving beside him, obviously doing something with her equipment.

Then she put a hand gently on his shoulder. He could feel her uncertainty in the way that her fingers touched him through the fabric of his top – but this was the way she would reassure any nervous patient, and she would treat him no differently. He would reassure _*her_* that the touch was acceptable by meeting her eyes – but he could not.

'I'm going to take the sample from your optic nerves first,' she said. 'I'll take a bit from each eye, just to be sure. I'm using a micro-transporter. I'll set it up over your face, and get it in position, and it will beam just a couple of cells from the target area.'

Spock nodded again, willing himself into a state of total relaxation and stillness as the nurse went through the delicate process of taking the tissue samples from his optic nerves and his throat. Finally she touched his shoulder again, and said, 'That's it, Mr Spock. That's all I need to do. You're free to go.'

Spock nodded, sitting up on the bed and sliding to the floor. He pressed his lips together, then signed and mouthed, _*How long?_*

There was a moment of silence, and then she asked, 'How long? Before the results?'

He nodded.

'Well, Dr McCoy has to take a look at the tissue to be sure it's suitable. It needs to undergo a full analysis. We need to culture the samples in the lab. We also need to send the results off to the expert surgeons for their go-ahead on them.'

Spock nodded again. He wished for a moment that he hadn't sent Delash away. It was – _*hard_* – not being able to communicate. But for some reason there was something awkward about being in the presence of the nurse with Delash in attendance. Delash, he felt instinctively, wanted to be closer to him than he currently was. Perhaps he sensed a potential conflict between the two…

He exhaled a long breath, lifting his face to the nurse, willing her to say something since he could not. Finally he raised his hand tentatively toward her face. Their thoughts had been mingled once before. It would be no difficulty to establish a link now.

'Did you – want to meld, Mr Spock?' she asked tentatively, as if afraid she might be misinterpreting him terribly.

Spock nodded quickly, raising an eyebrow in question.

'If – you're sure,' she said cautiously. 'May I – Could we sit down?'

He nodded again, and she quickly brought over two chairs. Spock sat, and reached out again towards her face. His fingers touched, and seemed to burn into place, jolting into a connection with her mind.

_It is easier, _he said. _Far easier than trying to communicate with a sign language that you cannot understand._

The relaxation of relief flooded through her, and she said lightly, _It's so good to hear your voice, Mr Spock._

Of course, she would be interpreting his thoughts as a human could understand them, hearing him speaking rather than thinking. It was a relief that humans unaccustomed to melding had not the ability to pick up every nuance and impulse behind the words that they 'heard'. From her, however, he perceived a long time of aching for him, of being worried to the point of distraction for his safety, of piercing pain when she had discovered how he had been enslaved and blinded and beaten. A desire to help, a desire to restore what he had lost, to be able to look into his eyes and hear his voice and see him as he _*should_* be.

Despite the ease of communicating through meld, Spock sat, and did not say anything. He did not know what to say. He let her presence wrap around him like hugging arms, and rested in it.

_Mr Spock_, she said finally, breaking the silent communion.

He inhaled. _ I am sorry_, he said, allowing a sense of his feelings to spill over into her mind. Wordlessly, she understood.

_You seem - _ she began, and left the thought trailing before it could be formed into words – but Spock gleaned her meaning anyway – tense, preoccupied, _*angry_*.

Spock sighed. Angry was not quite the term for how he felt. But – there were unresolved feelings writhing in his mind. He had been raped, so violently, so frequently. He – he cringed inside just to think of it. And – nothing would be done about it. There were others still there on the planet, undergoing the same treatment, and nothing would be done about it…

He felt her fluttering of shock at the revelation that had slipped through into her mind. Of the medical staff, only McCoy had known the extent of what he had suffered. And now _*she_* knew too… Just like Delash, she wanted to move closer to him, to comfort him with touch and reassuring words. He felt her pity flood through into his mind, enveloping him, and instinctively he shied away.

_No,_ she said quickly. _No, please…_

Spock steeled himself, and relaxed his barriers again. There was pain in this revelation of feelings, but there was also relief.

_You – were raped?_ she asked him, slowly, and with great clarity.

Images welled in Spock's memory, sensations and scents and feelings that he wanted so desperately to forget. He felt himself shrinking, becoming small and scared again, becoming disgusted with his own body…

She grabbed at him, beginning to pull him back, staggering herself in the shared experience of the assaults but kept to her purpose by a desire to help him that was stronger than his own emotion. He saw himself like a reflection in a shattered mirror, a shard reflecting his own image of himself, still small and tainted – and another shard of glass, reflecting him through her mind, showing him as a strong and beautiful person that she wanted nothing more than to help.

_This is not what you are,_ she insisted. _This isn't you – this is what was done to you. You could never have stopped him…_

A memory again, of being bent over that table, of the restraints on his wrists and ankles. Of helplessness and pain flooding his body. Helplessness…

For her sake, he controlled it.

_We should have helped you. We should have come to you…_

Spock shook his head inside his own head. There was nothing anyone could have done. No one had known where he was. There was no one to help him. He had been powerless to help himself…

_Let me help,_ she thought.

Spock almost laughed.

_It is too much_.

_Trust me._

Something gave way in his mind, and he fell forward into a wordless, defineless sharing. The sense of release was something akin to crying – but he was not crying.

Finally, he pulled away, gasping.

'Did that help you, Mr Spock?' she asked him finally, an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice.

Spock nodded slowly. He would never have asked her to share that burden in his mind, but – she had. The memories seemed smaller, and safer, and easier to rationalise, simply for sharing them with another mind.

He raised his hand again, and touched it gently to her forehead.

_Don't speak of this,_ he urged her.

_Medical confidentiality,_ she reminded him. _ I may never have treated someone with a mind meld before, but it doesn't make any difference._

He imparted his wordless gratitude to her, then began to catch hold of the shards and tatters of his experience that were haunting her mind, calming them and soothing them to a point where they did not trouble her too deeply. In imparting his mind rules to her mind, it helped in some way to order his own.

_Thank you,_ she said.

A silence and calm like that of meditation sank over them. Spock sat, motionless, his hand placed delicately on her forehead, as the storms settled into tranquil waters.

_Mr Spock,_ she asked finally. _Was there another reason for the meld? You didn't intend to share what had happened._.

_Oh,_ he thought. _Yes. I – had some questions about the process of nerve regeneration. I hoped you would be able to answer…_

_I'll do my best,_ she thought.

And with the wordless ease of meld she understood his concerns, and he understood what she knew about the process. Finally he had a clear idea of exactly what the process entailed, in a way in which verbal description could not quite manage.

_ I want to see you whole again…_ he heard from her as a wistful sigh, a passing thought rather than something she had meant to communicate.

_I have great faith in both yours and Dr McCoy's abilities_, he let her know.

He let his fingers drop from her face, tracing lightly over her skin as he removed his hand. The deep sense of insight and communication and reassurance dropped away as the meld dissolved, and he was left in darkness again.

_*Solitude,_* he thought slowly. The solitude of these artificially induced disabilities was difficult to bear. Easier now, perhaps, having shared those intense and consuming memories in his mind…

She seemed to read something in his expression, because after a moment she said, 'Well, I'm due for a break, Mr Spock. Would you like a coffee?'

He considered, and then nodded. He had never given trivial socialisation much importance in the past, but after the brutal removal of every privilege and freedom the luxury of sharing an unhurried, hot drink with a friend was something he appreciated with new vigour.


	9. Chapter 8

8.

It was with a good degree of apprehension that Spock lay in a ward bed in sickbay awaiting surgery to restore his optic nerves. He did not fear the operation itself. Despite what he might imply to the contrary, he had complete trust in McCoy's operating skill. It was that moment of waking up that gave him pause – the knowledge that he would wake up either with the sentence of success or failure over him. He would see, or he would not see…

Cautious as always, McCoy had opted to tackle one problem at a time, settling on attempting to restore Spock's sight before he restored his voice. It was by far the best order in which to perform the operations. Much as Spock valued his ability to speak, the ability to see would restore far more functionality to his life.

He lay remembering that moment on the planet he now knew to be Villanesh 4 – standing frozen by an unknown device, as an instrument came towards his face, and blacked out all sight from his eyes. He had grown used to it in the months that followed, but he had never grown to accept it.

'Spock? Are you listening to me?'

Spock shook himself, and turned his head toward McCoy's voice. He shook his head honestly, and waited for the doctor to begin again.

'Nervous, huh?' McCoy asked, then said, 'Don't bother answering that. I know you'll deny it, and I know that you _*are_* nervous. Hell, you have a right to be. But you'll be fine.'

Spock nodded. There was no point in signing. McCoy's understanding of his sign language was lamentable, and none of his seven were here in sickbay at the moment. It was just him, and McCoy, and – He focussed his attention. Nurse Chapel, he believed, and another person he could not identify. Another nurse, he assumed.

'I was just saying, Spock, that we're all set up. It's time to go to sleep for a while.'

Spock's eyebrow rose. It was obvious that the doctor himself was nervous – it was always at these times that McCoy spoke in that gentle, euphemistic way.

'Christine, see to the anaesthetic,' the doctor continued in a more businesslike tone. 'I'll go get myself ready.'

'Of course, Doctor,' Chapel replied, using her own version of that professional tone. 'Mr Spock,' she said, turning to the Vulcan. 'I'm going to put this mask over your mouth and nose, and then I'm going to introduce the anaesthetic. Are you ready?'

Spock nodded. Her hand touched his shoulder for a brief second.

'There is _*every_* indication that the procedure will be successful,' she said in a low voice.

Spock nodded again. The reassurance was perhaps not necessary in logic, but he welcomed it. Then she placed the rubberised mask over his mouth and nose, and touched a hypo to his arm, and consciousness dissolved into nothingness.

******

'Spock? Spock, do you hear me?'

Spock moved his head feebly, and blinked. A hand was pressing something soft – a cloth, he supposed – over his eyes. He was thirsty. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, his body stiff and tired with enforced torpor. He nodded, instinctively moving his hands in an attempt to sign.

'Spock,' McCoy said again. 'I'm covering your eyes for the moment. Will you keep your eyes closed when I move the cloth?'

He nodded again.

'All right,' McCoy said, and the warm, soft cloth was taken away.

It was only his discipline that kept his eyes closed. _*Light_* was filtering through his eyelids. _*Light!_* He opened his mouth in a wordless indication of his shock.

'Spock, are you seeing something?' McCoy asked him, and Spock nodded vigorously.

'Your eyes will be sensitive,' the doctor said clearly. 'The grafts are very new. I've got the lights dimmed in here. I want you to open your eyes, Spock – but I want you to keep them still. Just look at me, okay?'

Spock nodded again.

'All right, then. Open your eyes.'

Spock slowly opened eyelids that felt damp and sluggish, like the unfurling of the petals of a flower still in bud. The light brightened, but it made very little sense. Colours assailed him – a fleshy pink colour, brown at the top of it and blue beneath.

'Blurry?' McCoy asked, and Spock nodded.

As the doctor spoke he had seen a movement in the blurred pink mass. He could make out a darker blotch where his mouth was, and the darkness of his eyes, higher up.

'Christine, hand me that scope,' McCoy murmured.

Spock turned his head towards the nurse's movement, and saw a blur of blond hair this time, surrounding another pink face. The nurse was wearing lipstick, and her smile was obvious as a blurred curve in the blur of her face.

'Spock, look towards me,' McCoy said. 'I'm going to shine a light in your eyes. It might hurt a little.'

Spock nodded, then held still as a light flashed first into one eye, and then the other. He had to force himself not to blink as the brightness assailed his sensitive optic nerves.

'That's good, Spock,' McCoy nodded. 'The light's getting straight through to your brain. You're losing a little in interpretation, and your eyes lack tone, but the grafts are working just fine.'

Spock pressed his lips together in a non-verbal sign of concern. The light was certainly reaching his brain, but it _*hurt,_* and the only images he could see were almost unintelligible.

'Spock, you can see,' McCoy pressed. 'Light, colour – it's just unfocussed. Do you have some pain?'

Spock nodded again, apprehensively.

'That's to be expected – it will fade over time. Spock, what you can see is _*great,_*' McCoy told him with a good deal of human joy in his tone. 'You've got to allow for a lack of focus – you've not used your eyes in a good few months. The muscles need to regain their tone, just like any other part of the body. But _*light is being passed from your eyes to your brain_.* You're _*seeing_,* Spock. It worked!'

Spock nodded again, trying to sit up.

'Whoa there,' the doctor said quickly, firmly pushing him back onto the pillow. 'Lie still. You've only just come round. Now, Spock, I'm going to leave your eyes uncovered, because I think I can trust you to be sensible. Can I trust you?'

Spock pressed his lips together, and nodded. He blinked. The pink mass of McCoy's face was becoming slightly better defined.

'Okay,' McCoy nodded, and Spock flinched. 'Yeah, movement and depth perception are gonna be odd for a bit,' he said, correctly interpreting the Vulcan's reaction. 'Your brain needs to readjust. Spock, it's important that you don't strain your eyes in these early days. I don't want you moving them about a lot. I don't want you straining to focus, or exposing yourself to bright light. Can I trust you not to do that?'

Spock nodded.

'Good. I'm going to give you a special visor to wear. It'll let enough light through for your eyes to be properly exercised, but stop any sudden increase in the light levels. You have to keep it on until we've determined that the graft has taken properly, and until your eyes are strong enough to deal with normal sight. Now – you're pretty sleepy, aren't you?'

Spock nodded again. His entire body felt like lead. He wanted to ask for water, but his arms felt so heavy… He parted his lips, moving his tongue over their dryness.

'Thirsty?' McCoy asked.

At his nod the doctor slipped a hand behind his head to support him, and put a cup to his lips. Spock drank the pure, cold water with gratitude, letting it sink into the tissues of his mouth, reviving it to the point that he felt that he would be able to speak – if he had been able to speak… But no. His sight first. His speech would have to come later. The results of this first operation boded well, at least.

'All right, Spock,' the doctor said, taking the cup away. 'Now, I'm going to put this visor on the shelf by the bed. If you wake up, I want you to put the visor on before you open your eyes. I want you to get some more sleep now.'

Spock nodded again, no thought of arguing entering his head. He had reached his limit for wakefulness. He let his head rest back into the pillow, and slept again.

******

He woke, conscious of a presence in the room.

Ever disciplined, Spock reached out to the shelf by the bed, fumbled for the visor that McCoy had left there, and slipped the device over his eyes. Then, and only then, did he let his eyelids rise.

In the dim, short-sighted blur, he caught sight of bright yellow, very close to him – a bright yellow that came in conjunction with his sense of _*Jim_* - of his scent and sound and the emanations of his mind.

'Spock,' Jim said warmly.

Spock parted his lips, almost, instinctively, expecting his voice to be there alongside his sight. Then he closed his mouth, and reached out a hand instead, finding Kirk's hand unerringly, and closing his fingers around it.

'Then it worked,' Jim said as Spock turned his eyes to Kirk's face. 'Bones told me it had – but I had to see for myself.'

Spock nodded, then turned his head with great care, sensing another presence before his recovering eyes lighted on it. There was no familiarity, visually, to the blurred figure that sat at the other side of the bed. The person had obviously dark hair, a dark beard, and was wearing a moss green top. Visually, it was a stranger, but as for the rest…

Spock let go of Jim's hand, turned to the stranger, and signed, _*Delash._*

'Yes,' the man's familiar voice said, his blurred face splitting in what must be a smile. 'Yes, Spockesh. You recognise me!'

Spock nodded, his eyes fixed on the man that he had never seen before.

'He came so that he could translate,' Jim told Spock.

Spock watched Delash's face – or what he could make out of it – and signed, _*You came because you cared_.*

'Yes, Spockesh,' Delash said, smiling again as Spock touched his hand to his heart to sign the word _*care_*. 'Both are true.'

'How much can you see?' Jim asked, leaning forward.

Spock signed, _*Enough,_* and Delash translated.

'Will it get better?'

Spock nodded, signing, _*Soon._*

He could already sense an improvement on his last time of waking. McCoy had underestimated the Vulcan ability for healing, and the ability of the Vulcan mind to readjust to new circumstances. The lines of Kirk's body and face were far clearer than McCoy's had been a few hours earlier, and made far more sense to his mind.

'Bones told me he could press ahead with the operation on your vocal cords as soon as he was sure the optic graft had taken,' Kirk told him eagerly. 'He also said you're healing much faster than expected. So, maybe that'll be pretty soon.'

Spock exhaled a long breath, nodded. It would be wondrous to have both his sight and his voice restored to him. It would be like the lifting of cell walls about him.

'Spock, I need to get back to the bridge,' Kirk said reluctantly. 'I took time out of my shift to come down here when Bones said you were waking up again. We're arranging the drop off of your Villanesh friends on Starbase 61.'

Spock nodded gravely. He knew that he would be saying goodbye to the men that had become his friends and protectors on Villanesh, without ever having seen their faces with any clarity. Perhaps regret over that was illogical, but he would have liked to have known their appearance. Of the six of them, only Delash was remaining behind, in a temporary role of interpreter to Spock, until he could speak on his own. He could feel Delash's own apprehension at being the only one to be left behind – but he at least had the assurance that he would be reunited with them as soon as he was finished on the _Enterprise_, and that they all were under the protection of the Federation until they developed means to take care of themselves.

Spock looked towards Delash. He could sense his ambivalence, rather than see it on his face.

_*You will all be fine_,* he signed.

'I know,' Delash nodded. 'I know, Spockesh. It's only – I haven't been separated from them in many years. It's – strange.'

_*I know_,* Spock signed.

'Spock,' Kirk said, putting a hand on the Vulcan's shoulder. Spock turned back to him, realising that he had been staring at Delash. 'I'll make sure they're sent down here before they beam off the ship. I'm sure you want to say goodbye.'

Spock nodded, signing, _*Thank you._*

'Well, I'll – leave you two alone,' Kirk said, with a slightly odd tone to his voice as he looked at Delash. 'I'm sure you've got lots to discuss.'

Spock nodded, and watched the captain leave with a good deal of curiosity. Was that jealousy he had heard in Jim's voice? He suspected that Jim found it difficult that Delash, a stark reminder of Spock's life over the past half year, had been inserted so firmly into every part of Spock's new life. He seemed to be always there to guide him and speak for him, and perhaps Jim found the closeness that the relationship entailed a barrier to the closeness that Spock had previously enjoyed with his captain.

He put the thoughts out of his head, turning back to Delash, trying without straining to better focus his vision. The dark hair and dark beard were a little clearer, and on leaning forward he thought he could make out that his eye colour was dark brown, very much like Spock's own.

'You really are seeing me, aren't you, Spockesh?' Delash asked, with a joyous smile.

Spock nodded, signing indecision to indicate that although he was seeing him, his sight was far from good.

*_When can I get up?_* he signed.

'Dr McCoy said you could leave your bed a few hours,' Delash told him. 'As soon as you're steady on your feet and the anaesthetic's worn off. But he wants you to stay in sickbay until tomorrow.'

Spock nodded again, resting back into the pillows.

_*I want to see the others of our seven,_* he signed.

'Oh, they were set on coming down here before they left,' Delash laughed. 'Don't you worry, Spockesh. They're not leaving without giving their farewells, I promise you.'

******

It was an odd farewell for Spock. McCoy had given him permission to at least get up out of his bed, and he stood in the sickbay facing five men that he had never seen before, that now had specific heights and skin tone and hair colour, whose clothes he could make out colours in, whose movements and stances were visible in his blurred sight.

'Ah, Spockesh,' Lamesh said, breaking all rules of Vulcan protocol by putting his arms about Spock and hugging him tightly. 'I'm glad to see you getting your sight back. And you've been a good friend to us all. It's strange to say goodbye.'

Spock nodded, covering his discomfort at the close contact. He could not sign in reply to Lamesh, held as he was, but he knew that the man would understand.

Andresh – a man with thick, unruly blond hair, he now realised – stepped forward and slapped him on the arm.

'Spockesh, I'm sorry to be leaving you. But this is freedom, isn't it?'

Spock nodded again. Able to sign now that Lamesh had released him, he said, *_Yes, this is freedom. It is large, and uncertain, but it is good_.*

'Ah, that it is,' Andresh nodded. 'That it is.'

'You will call us, won't you, when you have your voice?' Salensh asked anxiously.

'Yes, I want to know what kind of voice comes out of that mouth – if it's a precise as the rest of you,' Lamesh laughed.

Spock's eyebrow rose. Perhaps his voice would be described as precise by those who knew it. He nodded, touching his heart to indicate a promise.

_*You must go,_* he signed. _*You will be late._*

Delash touched his arm, stepping forward.

'Come on, boys,' he said with what sounded like a very human mixture of smiles and tears. 'He's right. You need to go down to the transport room.'

Spock stood still in the centre of them all as they came to him to offer their last farewells, then watched as they left the sickbay for the last time. One did not need to be human to feel that one would miss friends who had been as good to him as these men had been.

'They're gone, then,' McCoy said quietly, coming into the room as the door into the corridor closed.

Spock nodded. Delash had gone with the others to say goodbye in the transporter room, and he suddenly felt very much alone.

'I guess you got used to being with them all the time, even if it was in a horrifying situation,' McCoy said, coming over to him. 'Must be strange for you, saying goodbye.'

Spock nodded again. He did not feel like discussing it – but at least, with no voice, McCoy could hardly expect him to hold an in-depth conversation on the subject.

'But Delash is staying on for now, isn't he?' the doctor continued. 'He's a good man, Spock. I like him. And he certainly likes you.'

Spock turned his head sharply towards McCoy, his eyes narrowed. He wished he could ask the doctor what he had meant by that question in that tone of voice.

'He _*likes_* you, Spock,' McCoy said more meaningfully. 'And if I know you, you don't like him in quite the same way.'

Spock sat back down on his bed, troubled by McCoy's words. He had sensed for a long time that there was something deeper than simple friendship behind Delash's feelings towards him, but he had never felt the need to actually deal with that fact. It would be extremely difficult to deal with it without the fluency of speech.

He exhaled. The matter would have to wait until after the second operation.

'Well, Spock,' McCoy said, as if understanding his desire to drop the subject. 'I've been looking over your readings. You seem to be recovering with your normal verve from what should have been a very delicate and difficult operation. It seems that I can drill into your head and graft new tissue between your eyes and your brain, and it doesn't affect you more than removing a splinter. I take it you can see a good deal better than you could when you first came round?'

Spock nodded.

'Can you make out the eye chart I've put up on that wall over there?'

Spock turned his eyes to the opposite wall, making out a white blur against the grey-green wall, and nodded.

'Can you make out any of the letters on it?'

He shook his head.

'How close do you need to be to work out any of the type?'

Spock stood, moving closer to the chart. He reached the wall, and stood with his eyes only a few inches from the chart. Then he gasped, tracing his finger over the large capital M that stood at the top of the chart.

'You can see that?' McCoy asked with glee, coming over to him. 'What letter is it, Spock?'

Spock traced his finger over the letter again, then retraced an M on the wall beside it, for McCoy's benefit.

'You can tell it's an M? Can you see any further down?'

Spock reached out again to the chart, moving his fingertip hesitantly over the blurred lines he could see there. He managed to make out some of the letters on the second line, but the rest was a mystery to him.

'You're doing just great, Spock,' the doctor reassured him. 'Ten times better than I expected. I wouldn't be surprised if you're close to normal by the end of the week. Now,' he said firmly, touching the Vulcan's arm. 'Enough work. I don't want you straining your eyes. Come through to my office and have a coffee. I've missed our arguments, and sitting in that office wondering about Jim's sanity together, and working on save-the-galaxy remedies. I want to discuss ways to persuade Jim to get this ship some R&R.'

Spock nodded, his eyebrow quirking upward in agreement. Much as arguments were an illogical waste of time, he had missed them too.

******

It was less than a week before McCoy went ahead with the second operation, and by the time that Spock's vocal cords had recovered his eyesight was almost back to its normal focus and clarity. It was at that point, strangely, that what had happened to Spock on Villanesh 4 seemed to hit him the hardest. Up until that point he had still, in some ways, identified himself as Sarkesh, the slave, who had suffered as a slave would expect to suffer on Villanesh, and bore it as stoically as a slave must bear it. But standing in front of his mirror in the bathroom, on the first morning that his voice and eyesight were truly recovered, Spock stared at himself in horrified amazement.

McCoy had focussed all of his efforts on restoring Spock's sight and voice, and his other scars had gone untreated for now. The scar from the kettle of _ny'ar_ still puckered and deformed the skin on his thigh. There were still tight greenish scars reaching onto his shoulders and chest from the frequent whippings that he had endured, and he knew that they lay in a mat across his back, ridging his skin like a field ploughed in many different directions. And there were other scars too – scars that he could not see, but that made him want to wrap a robe about his body and conceal it from his own sight. Was this the body that Milaresh had seen, taut and trembling, waiting for his attacks?

Spock shuddered, unable to tear his eyes from his own pale skin. Milaresh had seen him, and wanted him. That was the initial reason for his abduction. Milaresh had desired him as a chamber slave, and he had taken him…

He turned away from the view of himself, disgusted with his own lack of control. He had thought that he had come to terms with what he had been. He thought that when McCoy restored his speech and his sight his self-respect would return along with them.

He drew on a thick towelling robe, and went through to his quarters. The communicator was flashing on his desk. Spock sighed. He had no desire to talk to anyone at this time – but he could not ignore the summons…

He pressed the button on the desk, and closed his eyes briefly in disappointment as the screen came to life. This was a visual communication, not just an audio one. His apprehension only grew in volume as he recognised the slant-eyebrowed, pointed-eared figure on the screen. This was the very last person he wanted to face at this moment in time.

'Sarek,' he said in a level tone.

'Spock,' his father said. Sarek's voice was unusually gentle, his eyes holding an unusual amount of warmth. 'I had wanted to speak with you. Is this time convenient?'

Spock exhaled, then pushed aside his personal feelings on the matter and nodded.

'I am not busy,' he said, pulling the sides of his robe more completely across his chest and seating himself behind the desk. 'What did you want to discuss?'


	10. Chapter 9

9.

On the computer screen in Spock's quarters, Sarek looked down momentarily, as if studying his hands as he worked out what to say. Then he raised his head and said, 'I asked to be told when you were capable of speaking with me, Spock. Your doctor informed me that your vocal cords are recovered to a point where you can hold a full conversation.'

Spock inclined his head.

'That is true,' he said. His voice was lacking its former strength and stamina, but it was, at least, a voice.

'Your mother and I were deeply concerned about you for six months, Spock,' Sarek continued. 'I – do not think that you can imagine a parent's grief in hearing of the abduction of their only son, nor their relief in the knowledge of that son's safety.'

Spock inclined his head again, unsure as to how to respond to Sarek's emotional admission.

'I hope to put what happened behind me,' he said evenly. 'I will soon be capable of returning to duty.'

'Is it so easy, Spock, to put what happened behind you?' Sarek asked meaningfully.

Spock feigned a lack of understanding.

'The mind rules tell us – '

'The mind rules,' Sarek muttered, dismissing those rules learnt over a lifetime just with his voice.

'The mind rules instruct us in the control of our reactions to unpleasant events,' Spock said in a tone that revealed just how tightly he clung to the safety of those rules. 'I am quite capable of reconciling myself to the facts of my enslavement.'

'Spock – you did not simply suffer enslavement,' Sarek said, looking at his son with a light of compassion in his eyes. 'You have been raped, in a most horrific way.'

Spock's face seemed to turn to granite, but he felt as if his insides were melting and falling down to the floor. Suddenly Sarkesh, who had suffered on Villanesh, and Spock, who sat here in this chair with his towelling robe tightly cinched around his body, seemed to blend into one person. He could feel him all over him, feel his heavy flesh….

He pushed it away again before his reaction could reach his face.

'My medical details were supposed to be confidential,' he said.

Sarek cocked his head to one side, a smile almost touching his lips.

'Spock. You were abducted, and sold into slavery for over six months. You were blinded and muted. Those details were matter of fact. It required little research to discover that the reason for blinding and muting a slave on Villanesh 4 is in order for them to serve as a slave to the bedchamber. One of the duties of a slave to the bedchamber is to act as a receptacle for the owner's sexual urges. It does not take a master of logic to deduce that in the course of six months of slavery you were raped, at least once, by the man who controlled you.'

Spock was silent for a long space. Then he said, 'Does my mother – '

'My research was not conducted from our home terminal, Spock,' Sarek assured him. 'If your mother is aware of the depth of your suffering, it is through her own research. I do not believe that she is. I am capable of shielding more in my mind from her than she is from me.'

'I – do not wish mother to know,' Spock said firmly. 'I – did not wish – '

'I know,' Sarek nodded. 'Spock, I have been led to believe that Starfleet will not pursue justice in this case.'

'There is very little that Starfleet can do without provoking a war,' Spock said flatly.

Sarek's face seemed to tremble momentarily.

'War – does not seem unwarranted,' he said with sudden determination.

'Sarek,' Spock said gently. '*_Father*._ You are one of the Federation's most respected diplomats. It is not logical to propose war over the treatment of a single individual in Villanesh custody.'

Sarek's eyes closed briefly.

'I had not thought _*you_* to be the one to lecture _*me_* on logic, Spock.'

'Perhaps – I am better able to rationalise my own treatment that you are,' Spock said, although he felt far from rational. 'Slavery is an accepted norm on Villanesh 4. It is not pleasant, it is not in accordance with our ethical guidelines – but it is _*their_* way of life. Who are we to interfere with that?'

'We – _*you_* – are those who suffered their predation,' Sarek said in a sharp voice. 'They reached out beyond the limits of their system, Spock. They came to a Federation Starbase, and took you from it. They took _*my son,_* and mutilated him, and raped him. Would you condemn other innocent Federation citizens to the same treatment that you received?'

Spock bowed his head. He was unsure as to how to answer. He was unsure as to what power, if any, he held in this situation. He was unsure if he wanted what would amount to revenge, and if he could separate the motives of revenge from the motive of wanting to protect future victims from what he had suffered.

'I am _*trying,_*' he said in a tight voice, 'to control reactions of anger and disgust and – and – ' He shook his head. 'I don't have words for the emotions. I – do not possess a sufficient vocabulary. Sarek, I am trying to control a most un-Vulcan reaction. I – need support in this. I do not need to be urged to anger and revenge.'

'And I offer you support,' Sarek nodded, a thin layer of calm still holding over whatever emotions were motivating his words. 'But have you considered that a proper retribution would help you to that end? The man who _*raped_* you is unpunished. He is doing the same to other men and women at this very moment.'

'*_No!_*' Spock snapped abruptly, only just stopping himself from getting to his feet and striding away from the screen. 'No more, Sarek. You are attempting to incite me to a revenge that I cannot permit. I must accept what happened. I cannot change it any more than I can change my blood from green to red. The most draconian punishment in the galaxy will not alter what was done to me.'

Sarek closed his eyes, inhaling deeply in the face of his son's very emotional outburst.

He exhaled, steadied himself, and opened his eyes again to regard his son's face.

'I do not incite you for the sake of revenge, Spock,' he said finally, 'but to prevent further atrocities. Every person who sets foot on a starbase within the range of slavers such as those who abducted you is at risk of the same fate. It is _*necessary_* to bring both the slave traders and the aristocracy of Villanesh 4 to justice, to prevent this happening again. It is _*easy_* and it is _*cheap_* for Federation officials to say that no charges can be brought – but it simply is not true. The crime was commissioned and occurred on a Federation starbase. The case _*can_* be prosecuted. It is highly unlikely that a war will ensue. Villanesh 4 possesses scant resources for such a conflict with the Federation. Fifty percent of their food and supplies are imported. They are reliant upon the goodwill of those around them – and almost all of their trading partners are Federation members, and are therefore bound to uphold Federation sanctions.'

Spock sat in silence, staring at the screen, but barely seeing it. His mind was remembering fragments of events in Milaresh's chamber – the touch of his hands, the sound of his voice as he told Spock precisely how he was expected to perform, that feeling as his heavy, soft body came down over Spock's own, and that sharp point of pain as –

He remembered the girl, Telani-esh, and her exclamations of panic and fear as Milaresh attempted to rape her. He remembered being bundled alongside a female slave, and feeling her own mute misery mingling with his…

'Spock,' Sarek said, snapping him back to the present. 'I can force you to do nothing. But I offer my support, and the support of the Vulcan government, should you wish to press charges against those involved in your case. Our government holds a powerful voice in the Federation. You _*would_* be successful.'

Spock stared down at his hands for a moment, then looked back up at his father.

'I will consider it,' he said. 'You are correct that it is not simply myself involved in this case…'

Sarek nodded succinctly.

'Then I will bid you farewell, Spock. Let me know of your decision.'

'Live long and prosper, Sarek,' Spock said, his eyes focussed somewhere beyond the screen at which he was supposed to be looking.

He cut the communication, then lowered shaking hands to the desk. This conversation, on top of his momentary mental collapse, was beyond his limits of control. He could feel Milaresh everywhere…

The door chime sounded. A blaze of anger passed through Spock's eyes and was gone. He almost shouted his frustration at the unwanted caller – but instead he rose to his feet, tightened his robe again, and said in a weary tone, 'Come.'

The door slid aside to reveal Delash, standing hesitantly in the corridor.

'Spockesh,' he said the instant he saw the Vulcan. He had spent months learning to read Spock's body language. 'Are you all right?'

Spock's shoulders relaxed a degree, and he sat back down behind the desk, gesturing Delash to the chair opposite.

'I am – not entirely all right,' he admitted, keeping his eyes focussed on the wood grain of the desk.

'Ahh, Spockesh,' Delash said, coming forward to him with a hand outstretched. Instead of sitting in the chair indicated, he came round to where Spock sat, laying his hand warmly on Spock's shoulder. 'It hits you, doesn't it? I know I haven't suffered as you have – but after the joy of freedom has gone, all that happened floods back over you like a wave…'

'Astute,' Spock murmured. 'Accurate. My father wishes me to prosecute the case.'

'Do *_you_* wish to prosecute the case?' Delash asked.

Spock shook his head. 'I – do not know. I want to – erase every memory of that time from my mind.'

'Even your memory of me?' Delash asked softly.

He shook his head again.

'No,' he murmured. 'No. You have been a good friend to me, Delash. You all have. I – can only wish that the circumstances had been different.'

'Spock,' Delash said. He was kneeling now in front of the Vulcan, so that he could look up into his cast-down face. He raised a hand to Spock's cheek, leaning closer, his lips slightly parted.

Spock caught his hand, circling his fingers lightly but firmly about Delash's wrist.

'Delash, no,' he said softly.

Delash's eyes closed briefly, then flickered open again, a spasm of something that Spock could not interpret passing over his face.

'Then – you don't – ' he began.

'I don't believe that love depends utterly on gender,' Spock said in a low voice from which he could barely describe a tremor. It was too much. All of this was too much for his shields to cope with... 'But – I do not love you in that way,' he continued. 'I think – even if I did, I have been so damaged by – Milaresh… I could not consider a relationship with _*any_* person at this time. I – care for you, Delash, very strongly,' he said, altering his grip on Delash's wrist until he was lightly holding his hand instead. He had never met anyone like him before… 'You have been my friend, my saviour. But not my lover. Can you accept that?'

Delash looked at him, and Spock could see pain in his eyes – but it was a pain, he thought, that would heal rather than grow.

'I am honoured to be your friend, Spockesh,' he said, smiling.

Spock matched his smile with a very small one of his own.

'And I you,' he said. 'You have a great deal to give, Delash. You have been held back for years – but you can achieve much with your freedom.'

'Yes,' Delash said with a bitter laugh. 'Yes, I suppose there are thousands who could achieve much, if – '

Spock sighed. 'If I prosecuted my case,' he said reluctantly. 'If I stood before a panel of adjudicators and explain to them exactly how I was raped by the man who professed to own me…'

'Yes,' Delash nodded reluctantly. 'I suppose you would have to do that. But you have always been brave, Spockesh. You went into that mine every day when you couldn't see or speak, and worked in that hell. I couldn't do that.'

Spock shook his head. He had never thought of himself as brave, in all of his time on Villanesh 4.

'I had very little choice about that, Delash,' he said practically. 'In a choice between performing tasks in the mine and being whipped mercilessly, it is only logical to choose the mine.'

Delash tilted his head in acknowledgement.

'Perhaps it was a mercy that they hobbled me,' he said. 'Because I would have been whipped rather than go underground into that place.'

Spock regarded Delash curiously. His time on Villanesh had been hellish, but at least he had been able to draw on logic and discipline to control any tendencies to irrational fears. The people of Villanesh had no such advantage. How were they to stand up for themselves against an ingrained culture of slavery, with no Vulcan disciplines to control their fear and misery? It was true that his case could not directly affect the enslaved portion of the planet's population – the Federation had no right to judge a non-Federation planet on its morals. But the simple exposure and vilification of a planet reliant on trade with Federation members could perhaps slowly bring a change to the system…

'I must prosecute, mustn't I?' he asked Delash heavily.

Delash shook his head. 'I can't tell you yes or no, Spockesh. I don't want to think of anyone telling you what to do any more. But if you did, it would do great good.'

'Yes…' Spock said. His finger hesitated on the intercom button. Then finally he pressed it, and said, 'Spock to Captain Kirk. Jim, may I request a few minutes of your time?'

******

Spock looked oddly hesitant when he stepped through the door to Jim's quarters. Strangely enough, when he had beamed up blind and mute from Villanesh there had been an air of almost belligerent confidence about him – a certain learned hardness in his manner. But now that his voice and sight had been restored, while he was still signed off duty, he seemed to lack the aim and purpose that he had possessed before his capture, or during those weeks after his rescue.

'Take a seat, Mr Spock,' Jim said, looking up from his desk. 'Want a coffee?' he asked, looking toward the cooking alcove.

'No, thank you, Jim,' Spock said, shaking his head. 'Captain – ' he began.

'What is it, Spock?' Kirk asked more curiously.

Spock was standing before his desk, hands clasped resolutely behind his back, his face blank with repressed emotion. For a fleeting moment Jim had the fear that the Vulcan had come in here to resign his commission.

'I – ' Spock began with unusual hesitancy. He looked to the chair on the other side of the desk from his captain, and sat down awkwardly. 'Captain, on discussion with – a notable authority from my home planet – I have decided to pursue justice in the case of my abduction and subsequent – treatment,' he said with great formality.

Kirk regarded him steadily. With Spock, in situations like this, he was forced to read between the lines. _*A notable authority from my home planet._* That had to be Sarek. He had known that Sarek had been eager – or as eager as a Vulcan could be – to speak with Spock. He had little doubt that Sarek had deduced what had happened to his son on Villanesh. And the subsequent treatment that Spock had so evasively mentioned… It had to be the rapes that were at the centre of the request. Spock had accepted almost everything that had been done to him, but Jim knew that it was impossible for the Vulcan to accept the stripping away of his dignity and privacy in such a brutal way.

'Spock, part of the reason why the Federation decided not to press the case was because of the impact such a case would have on you,' he said carefully. 'You would be required to stand up in a court and detail exactly what that – _*monster_* – did to you. To be cross-examined and questioned and disbelieved. To have to prove that you weren't willing – '

An odd spasm seemed to pass over the Vulcan's face at that. He looked down at his hands, intently studying the white of his knuckles as he clenched his fingernails deep into his palms. He relaxed his hands again, and watched as the faint flush of green blood spread back through his skin.

'I am aware of that,' he said with great control.

'Spock, did Sarek pressure you into this?' Kirk asked gently.

Spock's head shot up, his eyes fixing onto Kirk's with a hard anger in them.

'I am capable of forming my own decisions,' he said, almost bitingly.

'Spock, I've met your father, remember,' Kirk said pointedly. 'He's not the easiest – '

Spock sighed, a world of turmoil in his dark eyes.

'Sarek did influence my decision,' he nodded finally. 'But – he is right. There are thousands of people living on Villanesh who are enslaved as I was. The planet's natives have no right to contest their position. Although I do not believe that a single case will be enough to set them free – '

'They're outside Federation jurisdiction,' Kirk pointed out. 'Villanesh is a completely independent planet.'

'Not completely independent,' Spock said pointedly. 'Villanesh relies upon Federation trade.'

'Ahh,' Kirk said slowly. 'A lot of spoilt landowners and traders who make their money out of trade with Federation planets, and use that money to sustain their lifestyle…'

'Precisely,' Spock nodded. 'I will not – enjoy – being the subject of such a case, Jim – but it is something that I am morally compelled to pursue. It is – the right thing to do.'

Kirk nodded slowly. It was the right thing to do. That was obvious. But he would have done anything to spare the Vulcan further pain at the moment.

'Captain, will you support me?' Spock asked, with a slight edge to his voice.

'Of course!' Kirk said instantly. He had not realised that Spock would even think it was possible that he wouldn't support him. 'I'll contact the relevant authorities and get them to push through the case. With your _*notable authority_* on your side there's no way they'll refuse it.'

Spock nodded. Kirk could not be sure if it was relief or apprehension that tinted the Vulcan's expression.

'Spock – are you all right?' he asked quietly. 'And I'm not asking if you've regained the weight you lost, or how your eyesight is now. McCoy can treat all those physical things. But you haven't talked about – the rapes – since you typed that report out for me the first day you were back here.'

A shiver seemed to pass through the Vulcan. Finally he looked up, and Jim felt as if he was looking through his eyes into the depths of his soul.

'What can I say?' he asked blankly. 'What is there to say?'

At the Vulcan's bewildered, injured expression Kirk rose to his feet and came round the desk to him, standing before him with his hand held out towards Spock in an awkward gesture of sympathy.

'I don't think any of us know what to say,' he admitted.

Spock's shoulders seemed to fall by a small degree, and he said, 'I – would like to be told how long I will feel like this…'

Kirk finally allowed his hand to touch the Vulcan's shoulder.

'Like what, Spock?' he asked softly.

'As if – my body is not mine. As if every surface of my skin has been substituted for an almost flawless clone. As if – I cannot separate my mind from this carcass that I live in,' he finished, his voice finally roughening with emotion.

'Spock,' Kirk said softly, crouching down so that he could put his arms about his friend. 'Let me help you,' he said in a low voice. 'Tell me how I can help.'

He could feel the Vulcan's body quivering with pent emotion that he could not release. Any other person would have been crying.

'You cannot help,' Spock whispered, then said suddenly, 'Return me to myself… Remove _*his_* ownership. Remove this feeling… Show me how to control the hatred…'

'It's not wrong to hate him,' Kirk said, his voice close to Spock's ear.

Spock shook his head miserably. 'Myself… I hate myself, Jim. I – cannot stand this body I am in.'

Kirk tightened his arms about Spock's back, trying to work out what to say. In all of his training and experience he had never been told how to comfort a best friend in the face of what Spock had suffered.

'It'll take time,' he found himself saying. 'You need time to separate yourself from what happened. You need to start seeing yourself as who you used to be. You're strong, Spock, and self-possessed, and self-controlled. You _*can_* change your feelings. _*He_* did this to you. None of it was preventable. None of it was your fault. You couldn't have stopped him…'

'No,' Spock murmured, remembering restraints, and the threat of the whip, and the knowledge every time he walked along that corridor of what he was taking himself to. He had _*made_* himself go, in the face of every sense of fear and revulsion that was running through his mind. He had made himself go because submitting had been the only logical alternative. And he had survived…

'I am alive,' he said suddenly.

Kirk was startled. He could feel the warmth of Spock's body, and his blood pulsing close to his skin where his hands lay on Spock's back.

'Yes, you're alive,' he nodded.

Spock straightened up, drawing himself away from Kirk's embrace with an odd mixture of dignity and gratitude.

'I – did not allow him to shame me to the point that he had to kill me,' he said, more to himself than to his captain. 'I went into his room, every time, when I was bidden. I did not allow him to take my life as well as – '

'There is more pride in that, Spock, than in being dragged there by force,' Kirk said firmly. 'And I will be there every moment that you need me. It took me far too long to find you and get you out of that hellhole. I won't let you down now.'


	11. Chapter 10

10.

'This won't be easy, Commander,' the red-clad lieutenant said honestly as she sat down in the briefing room.

Apparently Lieutenant Anderson was one of the best attorneys that Starfleet had to offer. Her lack of confidence did nothing for Spock's own confidence. The lieutenant had specifically requested to see Spock alone, in order to hold a conversation unbiased by any other opinions. There was no logical reason for anyone else to be in the room with him – but he would have very much liked Kirk to be sitting alongside him…

'We have no identification on the traders who abducted you, so no one to prosecute in that area,' she continued. 'They, at least, were operating within Federation space, and are subject to Federation law. Lord Milaresh, however – '

'Lord Milaresh commissioned the crime on a Federation Starbase,' Spock said darkly, remembering that confused, helpless moment as he had slipped into unconsciousness in the middle of a starbase crowd. 'The men were hired on a Federation Starbase. The abduction, subject to Lord Milaresh's orders, took place on a Federation Starbase.'

'The rapes did not,' Anderson said pointedly, with no attempt to soften her words. 'In fact, by your account they occurred in complete privacy, with no witnesses other than individuals who were either complicit in the crime, or were fellow victims of the crime. In fact,' she continued, skimming her eyes over the padd in her hand, 'according to this data, you yourself were an active participant, at least once.'

Spock trembled almost imperceptibly. His eyes were focussed firmly on the table before him.

'There is a notable difference,' he said in a low voice, 'between being active and being willing.'

'You engaged in penetrative intercourse with a female slave,' the woman continued, still with her eyes on the padd. 'She was unwilling.'

'We were both unwilling,' Spock insisted, his barely repressed anger finally giving him the courage to raise his head. 'We were – instructed – to engage in intercourse for – the amusement – of the Lords Milaresh and Mavanesh. To refuse would have resulted in severe physical punishment for both of us. It was – only logical to obey.'

'I understand,' Anderson said, a small smile of sympathy softening her face. 'I _*do_* understand, Commander. But anything like this will be picked upon. Do _*you_* understand that? Are you prepared to sit before a room full of people and recount events like that one, and to be cross-examined, to have insinuations and accusations thrown at you, to have the defence doing _*everything_* to show that you were willing?'

Spock could not stop himself from rising to his feet. He took two trembling steps away from the table, clenching his hands before his body. He stared at the wall.

'I was _*enslaved,_*' he said in a trembling voice. 'They took my sight and my voice and my freedom, and they forced me into – unspeakable acts, and they _*beat_* me beyond the limits of endurance when my conduct was displeasing. To punish me for preventing a rape, he had me whipped until I could barely stand, and then he fastened me to a table and beat me with his belt buckle, and then raped me, with no mercy or compassion. He laughed about the incident with his friend. Just five days later, they both raped me again, regardless of my existing injuries from the initial attack. I have never – felt such pain – as I did then.'

He wheeled around, to see the lieutenant watching him with an apparently emotionless face. She seemed to have stolen his own emotional control and utilised it herself. She knew everything of what he had suffered – or at least, everything that he had reported – and had doubtless seen the photographic evidence of his abuse. At that moment she seemed to hold as much power over him as Milaresh had done.

'Do you understand, Lieutenant?' he asked, his emotions quivering and churning just below the surface of his control. 'I – cannot describe the effect of that upon me. I cannot – '

'Mr Spock,' she said softly, standing up to face him. 'I understand. I don't mean to be callous – I really don't – but you will face this before more people than just me. I have to be sure that you're able to go through with it. We'll be prosecuting for everything – the abduction, the mutilation, the unlawful imprisonment, the slavery – but the rape will be used – by _*both_* sides – as the most powerful tool.'

Spock clenched his fists, closing his eyes briefly as he condensed and controlled his emotions.

'I must apologise for my outburst, Lieutenant' he said in a level voice as he regained his seat at the table. 'I will endeavour to control…'

'I don't blame you, Commander,' she said firmly. 'Really, I can't imagine what you've been though. I'm just trying to make you aware of the turmoil that you will be put through. If you find it hard in front of me, then it will be ten times harder in front of people who are trying to defend the man who did this.'

'I understand that, Lieutenant,' Spock nodded. 'And I admit that I am not – fully prepared – for such an encounter. But I do intend to do all that I can to be prepared when the time comes. It is what I must do.'

She nodded, looking down at her notes again. 'This friend of yours – Mr Delash, isn't he? He was a fellow slave on Villanesh 4?'

Spock nodded.

'Is he willing to support you as a witness?'

Spock nodded again. 'He is reluctant, but he will do it. He has assured me…'

'You can rely on him?' she asked seriously.

Spock considered gravely for a moment, then said, 'I would trust that man with my life. But – he had no idea of exactly what had happened to me until after I was released,' he pointed out. 'He was aware of my distress, but he did not know the cause.'

'You never told anyone?'

Spock shook his head. 'You forget, Lieutenant, that I was entirely dependent on self-invented sign language. It would not have been easy to discuss the finer points of my treatment.'

'Then you wouldn't have been able to tell Lord Milaresh no,' she mused, almost to herself.

Spock stared at her.

'Lord Milaresh was quite aware that he was acting against my will,' he said flatly, managing this time to keep his emotions away from his voice.

'Was _*anyone_* aware of what had happened,' she persisted, 'apart from the accused?'

Spock's head dropped for a moment. 'Master Robbesh,' he said reluctantly. 'He was the overseer of the household. He was fully aware of what Lord Milaresh had done.'

'A free man?' Anderson asked. 'An employee, and not a slave?'

'Insofar as any person below the rank of Lord is free on Villanesh 4, then Master Robbesh is a free man,' Spock nodded.

'Then he was complicit in the crime,' Anderson said baldly.

Spock sighed, shaking his head, the memory of all the times that Master Robbesh had helped him flashing through his mind.

'He procured me treatment, and attempted to help me. The first time it happened he advised Lord Milaresh to restrain himself from repeating his assault until I was healed. I gained a good deal of support from Master Robbesh.'

'But he stood by and allowed you to be assaulted,' Anderson countered, watching his face intently. 'My notes say that he was also the one who blinded you and removed your vocal cords, and the one who arranged for your abduction.'

'Yes, that is true,' Spock admitted reluctantly. 'At least, I believe he arranged the abduction, on his master's orders.'

'I've spoken to witnesses from the Starbase that confirm that he did,' Anderson nodded. 'But you want to protect him, Commander?' she asked curiously.

Spock's logic and control seemed to be turning in on itself. How did he explain how much he felt he owed to Master Robbesh, despite what the man had done?

'Master Robbesh was the only person in Lord Milaresh's mansion who had any power to protect me – and he did protect me, to the best of his abilities,' he said steadily. 'He is the one person who stands between Lord Milaresh and the slaves, and very often Lord Milaresh would listen to his advice. I do not wish to implicate him in any crime.'

Anderson smiled. Humans seemed to smile at such odd moments. Spock could not imagine what was amusing about this conversation.

'That may be impossible, Mr Spock,' she said. 'He is inextricably bound up with the case.'

Spock exhaled, looking down at his hands.

'Have you achieved what you wished to today, Miss Anderson?' he asked. He was at the limits of his endurance for discussing a subject so unpleasant to him.

She looked up at him, regarding him with a kind of detached criticism.

'I think so, Mr Spock,' she said finally. 'Most of all I wanted to be sure that you were up to the trial, considering the – emotional and traumatic atmosphere of a case like this.'

Spock raised an eyebrow.

'Do you believe that I am 'up to it'?' he asked.

'I think so,' she nodded, gathering together her things. 'I'll take all this away and continue my work on the case. Can you meet with me at the same time tomorrow?'

Spock nodded briefly. His schedule was remarkably empty at present.

'We will need to go over points of the case in far more detail,' she warned him. 'You might find it – upsetting.'

Spock looked at her sharply, trying to gauge exactly what she meant by that – but there was no hint of mockery, only of compassion.

'I will endeavour to control my reactions,' he said gravely. 'Thank you for your patience, Lieutenant Anderson.'

She smiled. 'Believe me, Mr Spock. Most people in your case wouldn't be half as controlled.'

'Most people are not Vulcan,' Spock pointed out.

'No,' she said simply. 'Most people aren't.'

Spock watched her leave the room, as brisk and efficient as every member of Starfleet Legal that he had ever seen. His confidence in her had grown since he had walked into the room. His confidence in himself, however, was in tatters. If he could not hold together his control in front of one woman who was on his side in this case, then how would he do so before a roomful of strangers who sought to find lies and deception in his testimony?

He rested his arms on the table tiredly – and then sank his head down onto his arms and sat there, letting his gaze rest on the blank table stretching away from him. Odd how one's perspective changed so much with a slight shift of position. From here, the table seemed vast and daunting, rather than a compact and useful piece of furniture. Perhaps, with his head raised up, the spectre of Milaresh and his defence team would not seem daunting… Perhaps – if one could parallel an altered view of a table with his reaction to a man who had been the author of the most miserable period of his life.

He did not raise his head up, but closed his eyes instead, and stayed in the silence of the room, letting his thoughts settle in his mind. He was whole, he was healing. Milaresh held no power over him now. If his case was successful, Milaresh would never hold power again. He would be incarcerated in some Federation border correctional facility, perhaps even subject to the same abuse that Spock himself –

No. He dragged himself away from that thought. He was not doing this for revenge. He would not wish that on anyone else. It was not logical to wish it on anyone else…

'Spockesh…'

Spock jerked upright. He had not even heard the door open. Delash stood there, clad in yet another of the Fleet jumpsuits that made up his wardrobe, a hesitant, apologetic look on his face.

'I was waiting for you to come out,' he explained. 'But you didn't… Was it difficult?'

Spock pressed his lips together. 'More difficult than I had imagined,' he admitted, getting to his feet.

'She looked – intimidating.'

'She was not intimidating,' Spock said honestly. 'But the subject was intimidating. Events as they must proceed are intimidating…'

'We're going back to Villanesh,' Delash said, a further degree of nervousness entering his voice. 'The captain said we have to go back there to make sure that the Master attends the trial.'

Spock suppressed a knowing smile. _*Make sure_* was undoubtedly Kirk's way of saying _*forcibly detain_*. Kirk had not told him of this particular part of the plan, and he wondered why…

'Delash, would you excuse me?' he said abruptly, but not unkindly. 'I need to speak to the captain.'

'Of course, Spockesh,' Delash said, taking a step backwards.

For a moment the veil that had lowered between them when Delash had expressed his feelings for Spock thickened a little. On Villanesh they had been equals. If anything, Delash had been superior to him. Here, Delash was apart from the rest of the ship. He had nothing here but his feelings for Spock, and that was becoming an increasingly tenuous thread between them as Spock became more of his former self.

'I appreciate you coming to check on me,' Spock said more kindly. 'Understand, I do not intend offence with my manner. It is who I am.'

'I understand you, Spockesh,' Delash said with a sudden smile. 'I think I understand more than I should.'

He reached out a hand to Spock's face, as he had done before. This time Spock did not resist the touch. He merely closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as he felt every nuance of Delash's desire to comfort him through the light touch. Delash's fingers were surprisingly soft and cool against his cheek, and the urge to lean closer in to his comfort was overwhelming.

'Spock,' Delash whispered. 'I am sorry…'

This time Spock found himself leaning forward, his eyes still closed, until he felt the stiffness of Delash's beard against his face. Their lips touched, and Spock sank into a kiss that seemed to soothe away every tension in his body. Delash's mouth tasted faintly of pineapple. His teeth were smooth and clean. His tongue felt strong and supple against Spock's own. Delash's arms were around him, his hands moving up under his top, tracing with great sensitivity over the scars that latticed his skin.

A rush of exhilaration came over Spock. He was in _*control_*. This was his choice. This was Delash, looking at the body that had disgraced him so, and desiring it so much that even the tight, knotted scars did not bother him, and the knowledge of what had been done to it did not bother him…

He turned his head sideways momentarily, taking just long enough to order, 'Computer, engage privacy lock. No override. Authorisation, Spock, First Officer,' and then he turned his face back through the scratching beard and found Delash's mouth again, and began to re-examine its interior with languid movements of his tongue.

'Spock,' Delash whispered as he finally broke away. In Delash's mouth, Delash who had only ever called him Spockesh, that name acquired a new significance. It became a monosyllable of seduction and trust and love.

In this ship set for human temperature preferences, despite his own need for greater warmth, Spock was suddenly unbearably hot. He was tearing off his shirts and throwing them aside. He was releasing the catch on his trousers and relieving the pressure on his suddenly stiffened penis. Delash's shoulders and chest were bare, and Spock was tracing his hands along his collarbones, and then the man's jumpsuit was crumpled about his knees, Delash's own erection rearing before him.

Delash pulled him closer, caught both eager organs in one hand, holding them together and working his hand up and down them together in a movement that made Spock moan with desire. The feeling of Delash's cool erection held firmly against the heat of his own overwhelmed his mind. Green blood and red blood pulsing next to each other… Delash's swift, strong fingers moving against his skin… Delash's other hand was cupping under Spock's scrotum, that had suddenly become impossibly tight and ridged with the force of his desire. Delash's nails stroked lightly over the tight crinkles, his fingers delicately exploring every inch of skin.

Spock threw his head back, his own hands moving on Delash's back, feeling scars similar to his own there working over surprisingly firm muscles. He shuddered at a particularly tight movement of Delash's hand, stroking his own hands down towards Delash's buttocks, where the scars faded away and there was nothing but smooth skin over powerful, rounded muscles.

'No,' he murmured finally, although it was not in response to anything that Delash had said.

Delash's other hand was searching backwards, massaging the flat expanse behind the tightness of his scrotum, seeking between his legs with ever increasing urgency for the opening that he desired. Spock felt ready for all manner of things – but not for that. Not yet.

'This time it will be _*me_*,' Spock said in a deep, firm voice.

He broke away and went to the room's small replicator, ordering the first thing that came to his mind – a vial of olive oil. Then he tumbled Delash down onto the floor and knelt above him, parting Delash's legs as Delash lifted his knees up and rolled his hips back and relaxed his muscles. Spock smoothed a handful of oil down over the length of his penis before pressing with controlled fervour against the opening there. There was a moment of resistance, and Spock hesitated, suddenly unsure.

'Do it,' Delash urged him in a low, breathless voice. 'You won't hurt me, Spock. This is so very different…'

And Spock favoured him with the hint of a smile, before pushing forwards through the muscular opening until the length of him slid into Delash's body with a gliding, gripping sensation that made him moan aloud. He leaned himself forward over Delash's body, his lips magnetised to the other man's, his hips thrusting with sure, powerful movements into that cool, clenching opening. He could feel the solidity of Delash's erection between their bodies, and he pressed down harder onto it, using his torso to stroke its length as he continued to thrust home. The room around him faded away until all that he could feel was Delash's mouth under his, and the firmness of his erection against his belly, and the tightness clenched about his own organ… Exquisite pleasure surged through his entire body, focussing with the intensity of electricity through his pelvis, and he cried out into Delash's muffling mouth as he felt the jerking release of orgasm, Delash's own explosion making a slick of wetness between their bodies.

Spock lay still, panting, the side of his face against the prickling of the beard on Delash's cheek, his fingers entwined in Delash's hair. Delash's own hot breath was billowing over the side of his, and he felt the tip of the man's tongue tracing along the delicate point of his ear.

'Oh,' Delash murmured finally. 'Spock…'

Spock allowed himself a smile.

'Yes,' he said in a low, rumbling voice like the purr of a cat. 'Very much so.'

'And I thought you said you didn't feel that way,' Delash said in a light tone.

Spock's eyes sparkled. 'I was mistaken,' he said.

'I like a man who can admit to his mistakes,' Delash smiled.

Spock pressed his hand against Delash's head, then with great reluctance rolled himself off Delash's body, looking down at the sticky mat of hair on his belly.

'Messy, this business, isn't it?' he asked.

Delash let loose a snort of laughter. 'Yes, Spockesh, dear. It is messy. But it's also fun.'

'Yes…'Spock said.

A feeling of gravity came over him like a cloud. He remembered hearing Milaresh's pants of satiety, the feeling of Milaresh's body, heavy and relaxed, over his own. That scent of oil and of semen released into air...

A surge of nausea overtook him, and he pressed his hand to his mouth.

'Spock,' Delash said softly, rolling onto his side and reaching out again to the Vulcan's face before he could become trapped in his memories. 'It's all right. We chose this. Both of us, together. No one was forced. _*You_* were not forced. And you enjoyed it. I _*felt_* your joy in your mind. It was like a flame bursting forth. I never knew that you could feel such joy.'

The corners of Spock's mouth turned up, just a little.

'Yes,' he nodded. 'I did feel joy. For those few minutes, I forgot – everything.'

'Keep forgetting it,' Delash urged him. 'Look at me,' he said, fixing his eyes on Spock's.

Spock stared into the dark, sepia depths, letting that intense gaze anchor him in the present. He had not been able to look into anyone's eyes on Villanesh.

'There is no one else in this room but you and me,' Delash assured him. 'No ghosts. No evil. Just you and me. You don't have to let anyone else in.'

Spock's tenuous control suddenly seemed to collapse, and he pressed his face against Delash's chest as he wept hot tears of release against his skin. Delash's arms came around his body again and stroked his shivering muscles, and his lips kissed gently at the top of his head, and Spock lay against him and accepted all the comfort that Delash could give.

'We must move,' Delash said eventually. 'Spockesh,' he said, shaking the Vulcan a little, suddenly afraid that he had wept himself into sleep. 'We should go before someone wonders…'

Spock stirred, pulling himself stiffly away from Delash's chest and carefully pressing the feeling of dried tears away from his eyes with the heels of his hands. McCoy had once said to him that the release of emotions was a healthy thing. In this case it seemed to be true. He had experienced a broader spectrum of emotion in this last hour than he ever had before in his life, and he felt a lightness within his chest that he had not experienced for a long time. He looked into Delash's eyes, and saw no revulsion or censure for the emotion that he had shown. Delash simply accepted it, as he accepted everything else about Spock.

He sat up, feeling the crackle of semen that was dried onto his body as he moved.

'Yes,' he said. 'I would say that we both need a wash, at the very least…'

Delash laughed.

'But how will we explain this?' he asked, looking at the disarray around them as he sat.

In their fervour chairs had been knocked over, there was a patch of dampness on the carpet where Delash had lain, and their clothes were strewn about the room as if they had been caught by the wind.

'No one will have to know,' Spock said, taking a chair and putting it back on its feet as the first step to righting the room. He rubbed a foot over the swiftly drying patch on the floor. 'There are stains enough on these carpets. I had never before considered all the causes… Besides,' he said, straightening up with a new dignity despite his nude and dishevelled state. 'I am the First Officer of this ship. There are very few people here who can compel me to answer their questions.'

'Spock,' Kirk said, looking up from his desk as the Vulcan came into his room. 'I must say I expected you sooner when your Delash said he was going to tell you we were heading for Villanesh.'

'_*My_* Delash, Jim?' Spock asked curiously.

His hair was still damp from the intensely stimulating shower that he had just shared with Delash in his quarters, and he could still feel the heady sensations of Delash's hands all over his body – but he could not imagine either that Kirk could have found out about what had happened, or that he would refer to it so lightly.

'Well, he's more your Delash than anyone else's,' Kirk smiled. 'He's only here for you, Spock. He doesn't have any reason to still be on the ship but for the fact that he's going to bear witness at the trial.'

'Ah, of course,' Spock nodded gravely. Once the trial was over, of course Delash would have to leave the ship…

'You'll miss him, won't you, Spock?' At Spock's uncomfortable reaction he laughed, and said, 'Spock, you spent six months in close quarters with the man. You're allowed to admit to a friendship.'

Spock inclined his head. 'I will miss him, Jim,' he admitted. 'But there is nothing to be done for it. Delash must form his own life.'

Again, his mind wandered. Long distance relationships were not unknown to Vulcans. He had spent thirty years of his life bonded to a woman that he had not seen since he was seven years of age, only to have the relationship crumple at Koon-ut-kal-if-fee. He saw Delash settled somewhere on a borderlands planet, Spock corresponding with him through video communications, taking leave that he had previously shunned in order to spend intense days and nights of passion with him, and then returning to the _Enterprise_ as the logical, unemotional First Officer that everyone believe him to be. It would not perhaps be the ideal relationship. It would be harder on Delash than it would be on him. Spock was used to containing his emotions and living in some degree of solitude. Delash was not. Delash, perhaps, would find another person to share his loneliness. Perhaps he would even choose to live with one of his former seven. Spock would accept that as a logical payoff for the kind of relationship that they had chosen to form. Perhaps he would even include the third in their relationship. The inhabitants of Villanesh 4 were not naturally monogamous, and the idea was not unthinkable…

'Spock, are you listening to me?' Kirk asked.

Spock blinked, bringing his attention back to his captain.

'I guess it was tough, meeting with Anderson,' Kirk said sympathetically.

'It – was not easy,' Spock said, truthfully enough. 'Jim, Delash said that you were going to Villanesh to make sure that Milaresh attends trial.'

Kirk grinned suddenly. 'Nothing like the presence of a ship of the line to put the fear of God into them, Spock. With any luck they'll just hand him straight over. And if not…'

'If not, Jim?'

Kirk shrugged. 'If not, I have Starfleet approval to go down there and get him. They may have been burying their heads in the sand, but as soon as you expressed a desire to prosecute they had to show themselves to be completely on their side. It's either that, or be pilloried for upholding slavery. If Villanesh protests, then _*they'll_* be pilloried for upholding slavery. It's not exactly something they advertise.'

'Then one way or another, you will have Lord Milaresh, on this ship,' Spock said soberly.

'Yes, Spock,' Kirk nodded. 'Briefly. We'll take him straight to Starbase 53, and he'll stand trial there.'

'And – Master Robbesh?' Spock asked with some degree of apprehension.

Kirk sighed. 'The warrant covers him too. If he's there, we're obliged to take him.'

Spock nodded slowly, staring down at his hands.

'If it helps, I agree with you,' Kirk said. 'That place needs men like him to help protect people from men like Milaresh. Of course, if this case brings down slavery on Villanesh – '

'It will not,' Spock said with assurance. 'It may signal the beginning, but it will not happen swiftly.'

'If you want, you can come along for the ride, Spock,' Kirk said, meeting Spock's eyes. 'You know the place better than I do.'

'Not by sight,' Spock pointed out.

'No,' Kirk nodded. 'But you still know it. You know where they're likely to be – both of them.'

There it was again – that pointed, meaningful look into Spock's eyes.

'Yes,' Spock said slowly, realisation of Kirk's meaning dawning in his mind. 'Yes, I understand, Captain. I would be more than willing to beam down and assist you in the search.'


	12. Chapter 11

11.

It had been a long time since Spock had stood in the transporter room about to embark upon a mission. He stood in place on a transporter terminal with his hand just touching the butt of his phaser, trying to suppress an unusual sense of nervousness.

The personnel in the transporter room bore very little difference to an ordinary mission of this type. To Spock's left stood Kirk, and behind him was an array of red-shirted security specialists. But to his right was Delash, wearing the borrowed gold Starfleet uniform of a non-commissioned officer, and with his hand on his own phaser. The reasoning behind his presence was entirely logical. Spock had lived in Lord Milaresh's manor for six months, but he had never seen it, whereas Delash had lived there for years with full sight as an indoor slave, and was intimately familiar with its layout. Spock would concentrate on locating Master Robbesh, whilst Delash would concentrate on helping to locate Milaresh. Spock was quite content with that. He had little desire to come face to face with his tormentor.

Together they had produced plans of the mansion that were as detailed as possible, overlaying their interior plans drawn from memory on exterior images of the place taken from space. Spock was certain that there would be very little difficulty in locating Milaresh or Robbesh. He was far less certain of what his reaction would be when they did. For a moment he wished to be in the other beamdown party that would be leaving some five minutes after his own departure. The second team would be beaming to the manor of Lord Mavanesh, in an attempt to retrieve him for trial alongside Milaresh. While Spock, he had to admit, hated Lord Mavanesh, he had not been under his control day and night for six months as he had with Lord Milaresh. He did feel, at least, that he would be able to face him with a greater degree of self-control than he would with Milaresh.

'You okay, Spock?' Kirk asked under his breath, touching the Vulcan's arm.

Spock nodded concisely, not letting his gaze stray from the back wall of the transporter room. He could feel Delash to his right, full of warm concern and a certain pent-up tension, and Jim on the other side emitting similar emotions. He was backed by dependable, experienced security guards. He was in possession of his sight and his voice, and had a fully charged phaser at his hip. Any danger he stood was of the physical type that might arise from a conflict, not of the soul-destroying, relentless ownership that Milaresh had lorded over him. He had no fear of that.

'Beam us down, Mr Scott,' Kirk said steadily.

The transporter room dissolved around Spock's body, and reformed into a room with ochre walls and open doorways leading off it. Spock took in a steadying breath. This had been the plan. They had beamed into the one room that Spock recognised by sight – the anteroom off which stood a number of slave rooms, including his own. The scent and feeling of the place were even more familiar than the sight. Every morning and evening he had traversed this room, navigating by no more than memory and experience and a nascent sense of solid objects around him.

'All right, Spock?' Kirk asked softly.

Spock nodded decisively, looking about himself cautiously. The slave rooms were almost certain to be empty, their occupants going about daily tasks in the house or at work in the mines. Servants and freemen spent almost no time in this part of the manor without a distinct reason. To all appearances the place was deserted.

'I expect Robbesh to be in his office at this time,' he said in a low voice. 'Milaresh is more likely to be in public areas, or outdoors, and far less likely to be alone. Suggest you take the guard with you, Captain.'

'I think you're right,' Kirk nodded, meeting Spock's eyes briefly. 'We're likely to encounter far more resistance. But check in at regular intervals, Mr Spock,' he said firmly.

'Yes, sir,' Spock said concisely. 'Delash,' he said, with no hint of any personal relationship in his tone. 'Will you show the captain the way?'

'Of course, Commander,' Delash nodded. He had learnt to adopt as formal a manner towards Spock outside of private areas as Spock did with him. 'Captain, if you'll follow me.'

Spock watched the small party trooping out through a door that he had passed through many times on his morning route to breakfast and then the mines. He waited a moment for the sounds of their footsteps to fade, and then turned in the opposite direction, moving decisively towards Robbesh's office.

He reached the door to the office and, on a whim, knocked with a quiet and respectful knock.

'Come,' said the familiar voice from inside.

Spock almost smiled. Illogical to feel nostalgia for such a horrendous period in his life – but Master Robbesh had eased him through so many bad times that he could not help but feel affection for him.

He opened the door and stepped through, his expression unchanging in the face of Robbesh's stare of utter shock as his eyes fell on the Starfleet officer. Robbesh opened his mouth to speak, but Spock held up his hand in a plea for silence.

'I am under orders to arrest you for your part in my abduction and subsequent treatment,' Spock said clearly, keeping his hands very deliberately away from his weapon. 'Were I to succeed in this aim, you would be taken for trial at a Federation base, and would likely spend a considerable amount of time in rehabilitative custody. Your incarceration would be a loss to Villanesh 4.'

Robbesh stared at him as if he could not quite understand what the Vulcan was saying.

'Commander Spock,' he said curiously. 'Why tell me this? You carry a weapon. It's a simple business to take me into custody.'

Spock's face did not change in expression.

'If you were to escape,' he continued, 'I would have no doubt that you would find employment on another estate on this planet, and continue to carry out your job with the admirable degree of ethics that you have always displayed. You were always a vital buffer between the slaves and the whims of Lord Milaresh.'

Robbesh nodded in sudden understanding.

'Were I to escape…' he echoed.

His hand closed on a heavy ledger that sat on his desk, his eyes still fixed on Spock's face.

'You are unlikely to hurt me severely with that book,' Spock said steadily. 'But I've no doubt that it would sufficiently distract me…'

Robbesh pressed his lips together, and lifted the book. He hesitated for a moment, then said, 'You were always an admirable man, Commander Spock. I am sorry to do this. And I wish you luck.'

And then he flung the book straight at the Vulcan, deliberately aiming it at his head. Despite his forewarning, Spock stumbled backwards into the wall as a corner of the ledger hit his temple. By the time he had recovered himself, Robbesh had left the room.

Spock stood still for a moment, then very deliberately sat down in Robbesh's chair behind his neat and ordered desk, pressing a hand to his temple. His fingers came back wet with blood. The cut was not severe, though. The blow had served to put him off balance, nothing more.

He surveyed the office before him. He had been here many times – most notably immediately after preventing the rape of Telani-esh, when he had knelt on the floor through a storm of raised voices, and had been sentenced to public whipping for his actions, and then again the morning after that first, terrible assault by Milaresh, when Robbesh had attempted to take his mind off what had happened by allowing him to clean and tidy the room. Spock knew this room intimately by touch, but he had never seen it. It was almost precisely as he imagined it, though. Ochre-walled, with ordered shelves of books, certain computer and communications equipment, and the large, well-equipped desk. No personal pictures or souvenirs adorned the walls. Robbesh kept his business in this room, and nothing else. Spock could barely imagine him having a personal life.

He stirred himself to action. There was no use in sitting here reminiscing about the place. He spent a few moments sifting through Robbesh's meticulously ordered records, pulling out anything that seemed vital to his case, then having the small pile of paperwork and discs beamed directly to the ship. That done, he opened his communicator, and contacted his captain.

'Jim,' he said in a level voice. 'I located Robbesh, but he managed to evade capture. Suggest we concentrate solely on Milaresh.'

There was a brief silence, then Kirk said in a tone of understanding, 'Of course, Commander. I think you're right. Milaresh is the more vital target.'

'Have you located him yet?'

'No,' Kirk said through the communicator. 'We've covered the probable sites for this time of day, but we ran into a lot of resistance. Had to stun quite a few of them.'

'Of the slaves, Jim?' Spock asked in surprise.

'Affirmative. Seems they've been warned of dire consequences if the Federation manages to pull of anything like your rescue again. They don't want to fight, but they're terrified.'

'I see,' Spock said slowly. 'Do you have any orders, Captain?'

'We're scouting the outdoor areas. Delash suggested he might be making rounds out there. Can you start on the upper floors?'

'Affirmative,' Spock nodded, his expression becoming pensive. 'I have an idea of where he may be.'

'Fine,' Kirk replied quickly. 'Check in in ten minutes, Spock. We'll continue our sweep out here, then make our way towards you.'

'Acknowledged,' Spock nodded. 'Spock out.'

He closed his communicator and put it on his hip, but his mind was far from his actions. An image was forming in his head of what Milaresh was doing. McCoy would have called it intuition, and mocked him for it. Spock called it a deep understanding of these surroundings and the man who had been his master. Whatever it was, he was certain the Milaresh was in his chambers, and that his mind was far from business. He left Robbesh's office, and continued to stalk cautiously through the mansion in the search for his target.

He found himself in a corridor in the upper house, feeling strangely disoriented. The corridor stretched away before him, and then turned sharply right. There were doors at intervals in the walls, and works of art that he had never been aware of hanging in the spaces between them. He recognised the configuration of this place from the sketched map that he and Delash had drawn, but he could not reconcile that with his own memory.

He sighed, and closed his eyes, letting himself become aware of his surroundings in a different way. He immediately became more aware of the distant sounds of people moving about, of subtle sounds of conflict and raised voices. They were far away, though. Irrelevant to him at this time. Jim would be dealing with it.

Then scents welled up around him. Ah, yes. That peculiar scent of the carpet beneath his feet. No doubt it would feel familiar too, if he removed his boots. The feeling of the walls close on either side of him, and the subtle alteration in the air currents and echoes as he walked past recesses that held doors. And that scent… He turned his head sharply toward the left. That scent, of spiced oils mingled with human sweat, that bored into his mind and brought a subtle sense of nausea into his stomach. He flexed his hands, opening his eyes sharply and looking down at himself. He was whole, he was sighted, he was standing in Starfleet uniform with a phaser at his hip. The slave Sarkesh, so close inside his own head, was, in reality, a world away.

Spock walked decisively two metres down the corridor, and stopped before a door. He raised his hand, as if to knock twice, as he had been taught. But then he clenched his fist, unclenched it again, lifted his phaser, and opened the door.

The scene before him seemed frozen in his sight. This room, that was a collection of scents and sounds and feelings in his memory, suddenly had colour and depth and finite boundaries. There were hangings on the walls, woven of rich silks. There were ornaments that he had felt but never seen each time he had been required to clean them. There were decanters atop a polished wood cabinet, that glistened under mood lighting. He had felt those decanters every night… He had poured those invisible liquids that now had colour and translucency as well as scent. There were the thick rugs that he had felt beneath his feet, that he had been forced to kneel on and…

Spock swallowed, focussing his eyes on the man who lay on the bed at the centre of the room, like a fat spider at the centre of his web. He had, in reality, been staring about the room for less than a second. The man that now drew his attention had to be Milaresh – he recognised him from that brief glimpse he had had on the starbase before his abduction. Milaresh was staring at him, with an expression of mixed surprise and anger on his face, rolling his heavy, oiled body away from another man who lay pressed into the bed.

'Stand aside, boy,' Milaresh said in a harsh voice.

Spock almost reacted, before he realised that Milaresh was speaking to the man who lay with him on the bed. The man stood up with an alacrity born of fear, stepping swiftly to the side of the room and putting his hands behind his back. Spock's eyes tracked his movement. The man was blind, and mute. He was a chamber slave. Is that what he had looked like, he wondered, with the taught, drawn expression on the face and the vacant eyes that did not seem to remember how to move?

'Ah, Sarkesh,' Milaresh said in a voice that was suddenly lazy and arrogant, facing Spock without bothering to draw on a wrap over his nakedness. He stroked a hand down his own chest and belly, and smiled. 'This is the second time you've prevented me from having my way. You know how I punished you last time. Should I blindfold you to remind you of old times? Or will I need this to persuade you to obey orders?'

And reaching sideways he swiftly picked up a slim weapon from the bedside cabinet, that Spock had failed to notice in that long moment of staring at the room before him.

Spock froze. Never in his life had he frozen in sight of a hostile. But – the thought ricocheted through his mind, bringing with it a cacophony of remembered sensations and sounds and scents – he had never before been raped by the hostile that he was facing…

He realised that he was still staring at Milaresh, and that Milaresh was speaking, but his words seemed unintelligible to his ears. He could not move. He could not even lower his phaser in deference to the weapon that Milaresh held. He could not reach for his communicator.

_*Illogical. Stupid. Fire the weapon. Open your communicator. _Do_ something. You cannot stand here and allow him to rape you again…_*

Milaresh was moving towards the restraints that were laid out on his table precisely as Spock would have laid them out. Spock felt his chest tightening. Stupid to have come on this mission… Stupid to believe that he was ready to face Milaresh…

The scent of the oil was going to make him vomit. The walls seemed to be crushing in around him. His eyes followed Milaresh as he reached for a restraint, and still he could not move.

_*Control. Control._*

Somehow, with a monumental effort, he managed to draw in a breath to the bottom of his lungs. He flexed his finger on his weapon. Milaresh was so convinced now of his control that he was no longer looking directly at Spock. Spock's finger began to depress the trigger.

A beam lanced out across the room, hitting Milaresh in the side in a vicious surge of energy, slamming him into the cabinet by the wall. He slumped to the ground, and the decanters that had been ranged so neatly on the surface toppled to the floor and smashed around Milaresh's body.

Spock suddenly came to life again, as if time had abruptly been restored to normal. One thing he was sure of – *_he had not fired his weapon.*_ The beam that had hit Milaresh had come from behind him, and it had not been a relatively low-powered stun setting that had hit the man. This phaser had been dialled up nearly to kill.

He spun, and at the same moment Delash came forward towards him with his arms outstretched, murmuring, 'Spockesh, oh, Spockesh. I'm sorry… You're all right, though. This time, I didn't let him hurt you.'

Spock stared at him, then turned back just as swiftly towards Milaresh, kneeling beside him amid the shattered decanters and touching his fingertips to the man's neck. The skin was warm, and sheened with oil and sweat – but there was no pulse moving beneath his fingers.

'He's dead,' he said slowly, withdrawing his fingers. 'Delash, you have killed him…'

Delash stood frozen with shock.

'I – did not mean – ' he stammered.

Spock removed the phaser from Delash's hip, and studied the setting. It was set high, it was true. It was set, perhaps, by a person who desperately wanted revenge on a man who had brought so much misery to him and to those who he loved – but it was not set to kill.

Spock returned the phaser to Delash, and nodded.

'If the shot killed him, it was an instability in _*him_,* not the phaser setting,' he said quietly. 'Perhaps a heart attack. Perhaps he struck his head. The doctor will determine the cause.'

'Spock…' Delash said in a haunted voice.

Spock inhaled deeply. He deliberately turned his back on Milaresh's body, and touched his hands to Delash's face.

'You did not mean to kill,' he said quietly.

He drew Delash closer to him, resting his forehead against the other man's, before tilting Delash's head a little upwards and touching his lips with his own. His arms slipped around Delash's body, holding him tightly, feeling the confused fear and dismay running through his mind even as Spock kissed him.

'I wanted him to stand trial,' Delash said finally, as Spock's lips stopped moving on his. 'I wanted him to be punished…'

'He has been punished,' Spock said in a low voice, his breath billowing hotly over Delash's face. 'I could not move, Delash. I found myself frozen. He had a weapon, and he was reaching for restraints. He was irrational, full of hatred, and I was quite alone. I – am certain that he meant to – rape me – to punish _*me_*.'

Delash's expression hardened at the tremor in Spock's voice, and Spock felt the same reaction echoed in his thoughts.

'I know,' he said in a low voice. 'And I'm glad I killed him. I am glad.'

'No,' Spock said softly, touching a hand to his cheek, stroking the soft margin where his skin became obscured by his beard. 'Never be glad at the taking of a life. Be glad that you have spared me further pain, but not glad of death.'

Delash smiled wanly.

'Spockesh,' he said, reaching out to run a fingertip along the contours of the Vulcan's ear. 'You are right. You are logical. And I will be glad of that.' His eyes drifted to Milaresh's body again. 'But just at this moment, I am glad that that fat, cruel, disgusting man is lying dead on the floor, and he will never hurt anyone again.'

Spock's eyes turned to the chamber slave, who was still stood, silent and bewildered, at the side of the room. He walked over to him, and touched a hand to his arm.

'Your master is dead,' he said quietly. 'Go to your room. Someone will come to instruct you.'

The man turned a mute, unseeing face to him, bewilderment clear in his expression. Spock turned away, declining to explain further. It was too hard for him to see this man, and to see what he must have looked like when he was in his place.

'Delash,' he said. 'What brought you here? I thought you were outside, with the captain?'

'I was,' he said simply. 'But – I heard the captain order you to search upstairs, and I just – had a feeling – that I was needed.'

'You were quite correct,' Spock nodded. 'I – don't care to think what would have happened had you not come. I was foolish to come on this mission.'

'It has ended now,' Delash said firmly. 'Milaresh is dead. Robbesh is escaped. It is over.'

'There is still Mavanesh,' Spock said in a hard voice.

'Yes, there is still Mavanesh,' Delash nodded. 'And he will bear the punishment for both of them. By all accounts he was a crueller man than Milaresh. He deserves his fate.'

Spock exhaled, and then leant forward into Delash's arms, taking comfort and reassurance from his embrace. He suddenly felt very tired.

'I'll tell you something that may gladden your heart, Spock,' Delash said in a conspiratorial tone, his voice close to Spock's ear. 'That chamber slave you just sent away…' An impish smile came onto his face. 'That was Menash.'

'Menash,' Spock said slowly, letting the name run through his mind. Then suddenly he remembered. 'Menash! He was – a free servant, who worked in the wash room, was he not?'

Delash nodded. 'A free servant. Free with his cuffs and blows and insults to the slaves. Free with his obsequious toadying to Lord Milaresh. I always said that if Milaresh told him to bend over, his star would be pointing at the ceiling before the Lord had finished speaking.'

Spock moved uncomfortably at those words, once he had fully understood Delash's meaning.

'I'm sorry, Spock,' Delash said quickly, stroking a hand down Spock's cheek. 'I meant nothing by that – nothing towards you. But anyway, I don't know what he did to come into slavery, but there he is. I think he got more from his Lord than he ever expected to receive.'

'Yes,' Spock said slowly. 'Yes, I imagine he must have…'

'Spock!'

The exclamation came from the doorway to the room, in Kirk's voice. Spock drew away from Delash as if he had been stung.

'Captain,' he said in a remarkably composed voice.

Jim was staring at the two of them, an expression of puzzlement and intrigue on his face. Then he seemed to shake off his preoccupation, and turned his gaze to the slumped figure at the side of the room.

'Spock, that's Milaresh, isn't it?' he asked quickly.

Spock nodded. 'Dead,' he said concisely.

'Dead?' Kirk echoed, staring at the man's body. There was something particularly repulsive about the naked, oiled, fleshy corpse, slumped as it was on the ground.

'I shot him,' Delash offered quickly, holding out his phaser to Kirk in a gesture of surrender. 'It was not Spockesh. I didn't mean to kill…'

'Spock?' Kirk asked curiously, turning back to the Vulcan.

'Milaresh had pulled a weapon,' Spock said in a level tone. 'I found myself – '

He broke off, unable to explain calmly and rationally what had gone through his mind at that moment.

'When I came into the room Milaresh was pointing the weapon at him,' Delash cut in. 'He said to Spock, _*I'm going to enjoy fucking you, and then killing you_*. Spock seemed to be frozen. Milaresh was reaching for his cuffs…'

Kirk's eyes darted to Spock, and then back to Delash.

'He was a large man,' Spock put in. 'A higher weapons setting was warranted. And Delash was not intimately familiar with the workings of the phaser.'

Kirk continued to stare at Delash.

'You did right,' he said finally. 'He made a threat to kill. You acted first. You did what you had to do.' He stood for a long moment in silence, then said darkly, 'All right. I think this mission's failed about as spectacularly as it possibly could. You and Delash beam up, Spock. I want you to see McCoy.'

'See McCoy – ?' Spock echoed. 'Captain, I – '

'Spock,' Kirk said more kindly. 'I may not be a doctor, but I think you're in shock. I don't think you were in any way ready for this and I shouldn't have encouraged you to beam down. Go and see McCoy. Delash, see that he does. I'll stay down here with the security team, and try to sort this mess out.'

Spock inhaled, looking about himself slowly. The mess was both literal and figurative, and he very much desired to get out of it, even if that did mean that he would have to submit himself to the attention of McCoy.

He reached slowly for his communicator, opened it, and ordered, 'Transporter room. Two to beam up.'


	13. Chapter 12

12.

Spock was still in the sick bay when Kirk beamed up, sitting patiently through McCoy's long and involved examination of his reactions on the planet's surface, and the causes of those reactions. He felt, against all Vulcan logic, numb. He was listening most attentively to what McCoy was saying, and if he reviewed the conversation later he would know precisely what had been said – but another part of his mind was reserved for the repeating mantra of, _*He is dead. Milaresh is dead._*

He was not even certain if that fact gave him gratification or regret. Milaresh would never hurt him again. He would not be vindicated by an unjust court. He would not cause anyone else to suffer. But conversely, he would never be condemned. He would never be told in certain terms that what he had done was wrong. He would not be held up to shame and just vilification.

Did he really want that? Did he want public revenge? Was this not a private affair, enacted between him and Milaresh alone?

He sighed, and McCoy said peevishly, 'Spock, I suspected you weren't listening to me, but now I know you weren't.'

Spock focussed his eyes on the doctor's face, concentrating his mind for a moment on that other, external conversation that he had been involved in.

'You just told me, and I quote, _*As time goes on your memories will get easier to deal with. Time heals, Spock,_*' he said confidently.

McCoy harrumphed in frustration. 'Just because you can roll off pat what I said doesn't mean you were listening, Spock. Now, what's going on in that terrifyingly convoluted brain of yours?'

Spock turned his head at a noise outside.

'I think that is the captain waiting for an opportune moment to disturb us,' he said, using a combination of skills learnt from months of blindness and his excellent hearing to interpret the small sounds outside. 'He's quite impatient.'

'Then he can carry on being impatient,' McCoy said unsympathetically. 'He ordered me to see to you, and I'm seeing to you. Captain or not, you don't walk in on a medical consultation and break it up just because you're impatient.'

Spock cocked his head to one side. 'Jim _*does,_*' he said sagaciously, as the door hissed open.

'Jim does what?' Kirk asked as he stalked through the door, looking from doctor to first officer and back again.

'Jim does have no respect for the sanctity of a doctor's consultation room,' McCoy said tartly. 'I haven't finished with my patient yet, Captain. Get.'

'You've been with him over an hour, Bones!'

'You sent him to me with shock. You didn't expect me to give him a miracle hypo and send him on his way?'

Kirk shrugged, holding his arms out from his sides. 'I expected you to be finished by now.'

'I'll tell you what – you don't tell me how to run my practice, and I won't tell you how to run your starship,' McCoy said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest.

'You _*do_* tell me how to run my starship, frequently,' Kirk said pointedly.

'Do you know how much longer I spent learning to be a doctor than you did to be a starship captain?' McCoy asked tartly.

Kirk's eyebrow arched. 'Really, Doctor? When you count four years at the Academy, three – '

'Gentlemen,' Spock interrupted softly. 'May I suggest that this is an argument that neither of you is going to win? Suffice to say, you are both _*still_* learning to be proficient at your professions, as am I.'

Kirk inhaled deeply, then looked at the doctor with a conciliatory smile.

'Bones, what say I take your patient and minister to him in my own way for a while, then deliver him back to you afterwards?'

'A respite, at least,' Spock murmured, not quite quietly enough for McCoy to ignore.

The doctor sighed. 'For all he's listening to me here, he might as well go with you for now. But Spock, I want to talk to you again tomorrow. There're too many issues writhing around in that head of yours. We need to get some of them straightened out.'

'Very well, Doctor,' Spock said tolerantly, rising to his feet. 'Your quarters, Captain?'

'My quarters,' Kirk nodded, an odd expression flitting over his face for a moment. 'I want to be sure of privacy.'

******

'Well, Spock,' Kirk said, when they were settled in the secluded comfort of his cabin. 'That was an – interesting day's work, wasn't it?'

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'Interesting is a relative term.'

'Milaresh dead,' the captain said in an overly casual tone, his gaze cast down to where his thumbs were twirling about each other restlessly. 'You and Delash engaged in – what I can only call a clinch – by his body…'

Spock looked up sharply at that. He had expected many things from this conversation, but not that. Some part of himself that was supremely skilled at denial had convinced him that Kirk had noticed nothing unusual in Milaresh's chamber..

'Spock, are you engaged in a – relationship – with Mr Delash?' Kirk asked directly.

Spock's eyes became veiled.

'I do not understand the relevance of that question,' he said blandly.

'The relevance is that I'm your friend,' Kirk said in a softer voice, leaning forward in his chair. 'Spock, you were enslaved, blinded – raped. It's not – usual – for you to be involved in a relationship, much less a relationship with a man.'

'It is not usual for me to be enslaved, blinded and raped,' Spock said pointedly, keeping his voice very level.

'That was done _*to_* you, Spock. Is this – being done to you too?'

Spock almost visibly bridled at that. The idea of Delash imposing anything on him seemed absurd.

'Nothing is being done to me without my consent.'

Kirk nodded very slowly, then said in an abrupt change of subject, 'We have Mavanesh, Spock. He's in the brig right now.'

There was a minute change in Spock's expression that Kirk could not quite quantify.

'That is gratifying news, Captain,' he said.

'The Villanesh authorities aren't entirely happy with what happened to Milaresh, but they don't dare kick up too much fuss for fear of drawing attention to their way of life. Delash is off the hook, though. There won't be any reprisals.'

Spock visibly relaxed at that, and a glimmer of intrigue entered Kirk's eyes at the Vulcan's reaction.

'Spock, do you – love – Delash?' he asked awkwardly.

Spock looked up slowly, and said honestly, 'I – am not certain how one defines love.'

Kirk nodded as if his question had been answered, then said gently, 'Just – take care of yourself, won't you, Spock? You've been through something no one should ever be subjected to. I want to see you come out of it whole.'

'As do I, Captain,' Spock said sincerely. He sighed, and then said with clear honesty, 'I am uncertain as to the true nature of my relationship with Delash. But both of us are aware that I will stay on the ship, and he will leave, after the trial.'

Kirk nodded again, slowly, rubbing a thumb over his lips.

'You are not comfortable with this relationship,' Spock said steadily.

Kirk shook his head. 'It's not my place to be either comfortable or uncomfortable.'

'But you _*are_* uncomfortable,' Spock persisted.

The captain sighed. 'I don't know, Spock. I'm happy for you, I guess, as long as everything's – all right.'

'Everything is all right,' Spock assured him sincerely.

'All right,' Kirk nodded concisely. 'Then I'll drop the subject.'

He sat silent for a while, regarding Spock steadily. Finally he said, 'Mavanesh's trial will be in a week, Spock, when we get to the starbase. Do you think you're ready for that?'

'I will be,' Spock nodded with an assurance he did not quite feel. 'Lieutenant Anderson and I are holding regular meetings to discuss the trial. The case is quite clear cut.'

Kirk nodded slowly. He could not imagine that the case was as clear cut in Spock's mind as it was on paper. He could not imagine how deeply Spock's experiences might have affected the private, dignified Vulcan in the long-term. There had been something subtly different in Spock's face ever since he had been rescued from Villanesh – perhaps something connected with loss of confidence, or of a mind awakened to a side of life that he had never before considered. In some areas Spock's innocence prior to those events had reached childlike levels, and he could not imagine that any of that innocence was left.

'Spock, will you have a game of chess with me?' he asked finally.

Something that was almost a smile touched the corner of Spock's mouth.

'I would welcome it,' he nodded. 'It is a very long time since I last played chess.'

******

The trial seemed to approach very quickly. Just the knowledge that Mavanesh was there, in custody on the ship, seemed to focus Spock's memories with unpleasant sharpness, and the week's travel to the starbase was divided into emotionally strained meetings with Lieutenant Anderson and private, nightmarish periods of reflection within his own cabin. His evenings and nights merged seamlessly between strange, unVulcan hours of intense association with Delash, and nights that descended into bad dream after bad dream, with Delash holding him each time he awoke. The only time in the entire week when he was not thinking of Milaresh and Mavanesh was during those intense evening hours with Delash, when purely physical activities drove everything else out of his mind.

Now he was sitting in a generic courtroom on Starbase 53, facing a panel of very human and very superior officers, having those private nightmares that had tormented him for months drawn out and dissected like dead things. He felt like a cadaver in a laboratory, as person after person discussed what had happened to his body without ever looking at him. He knew, intellectually, the reason why the braided and medal-adorned officers were avoiding his eyes. He knew that if they once made eye-contact his shame would flood into the room and be shared by everyone. There was no equitable solution to his situation. The only option was to endure it until the end.

He was sitting in a chair some feet in front of the assembled witnesses and experts now, and a man in typically Villanesh clothing was opening his interrogation. Perhaps officially the process would go by another name, but Spock felt that it was doubtless that he was being interrogated by this self-confident, self-righteous man.

'Commander Spock, are you certain that this is the man that you accuse of abuse?' the man asked. He was the first person in the room to make eye contact with the Vulcan, but there was no sharing of shame in the gaze – only a hard disbelief.

'I cannot visually identify him,' Spock said levelly, keeping a veil of discipline drawn up between himself and this combative man. 'But it _*is_* Lord Mavanesh of the planet Villanesh 4.'

'I ask you again, Commander,' the man said in a hard tone. 'Can you positively identify this man?'

Spock exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the defending attorney. At least that way it kept him from looking at Mavanesh, who was sat just a short distance away from him in a slightly elevated enclosure.

'I recognise his voice, and his scent, and his mental presence,' he said steadily. 'I cannot identify him by sight. I was quite blind during my time on Villanesh 4.'

'Mental presence,' the man repeated scathingly.

'Vulcan telepathic abilities were acknowledged by Federation Legal some two years ago,' Spock said. 'I can recognise a person's mental presence as easily and as accurately – perhaps more so – as you can recognise a face. That man there is undoubtedly the same man that – abused – me on Villanesh.'

'Lord Mavanesh,' the man said, turning towards the lord with a slight bow. 'Do you recognise your accuser?'

Lord Mavanesh inclined his head very slightly. 'I have known him as Sarkesh, a chamber slave in the employ of Lord Milaresh of Milaresh Villa.'

'For the court,' the defence attorney supplied, 'Sarkesh was the name appended to Commander Spock while he was in the employ of Lord Milaresh of Milaresh Villa.' He turned back to Mavanesh. 'And the traditional duties of the chamber slave would be?'

Mavanesh looked directly at Spock. 'To attend to all the needs of the chamber – to clean and tidy the room. To assist his lord with his dressing and undressing. To serve the lord and his guests as required with food and drink. And,' he continued in a harsher tone, 'to submit to any desire that the lord may make of him.'

'You mean to perform sexual acts?' the man asked.

Mavanesh nodded. 'To submit to sexual acts with the lord and his guests, and to perform them as required. And I must say, this slave did an admirable job, too,' he said with a lazy smile.

'Lord Mavanesh, would you confine yourself to simply answering the questions?' the judge said in a tone of weary annoyance.

Mavanesh nodded his head slightly, but as he did he looked directly at Spock, letting his tongue trail suggestively across his lip in a way that made the Vulcan feel nauseous. Spock caught a sense of mounting anger behind him, and glanced backwards to see both Kirk and Delash struggling to retain their seats.

'Did Commander Spock perform sexual acts with you?' the attorney asked.

Anderson shot to her feet and said sharply, 'I object to the wording of that question. _*With_* implies consent. My client did not offer consent.'

The judge regarded her with the impassivity of a Vulcan.

'We are not trying to establish consent at this point, Miss Anderson. Let the question stand.'

The defence attorney nodded, and turned back to Mavanesh. 'I repeat, Lord Mavanesh, did Commander Spock perform sexual acts with you?'

'Oh, a great many,' Mavanesh smiled slickly. 'His oral performance was the pride of Lord Milaresh's establishment.'

'You mean fellatio?'

'Oh, yes,' Mavanesh said slowly. 'I've never known a slave with a mouth quite as _*hot_* as his. And his tongue work…'

Anderson surged to her feet again with barely controlled anger. '_*Objection!_* Sir, please – '

The judge glanced at Spock's face. The Vulcan's face was white, and his hands were clenched on the arms of the chair.

'Sustained,' he nodded. 'Mr Janesh, if your client cannot confine his replies to what is relevant, then I will hold him in contempt of court.'

'Of course, sir,' Janesh said in a humble tone. 'Lord Mavanesh, can you detail exactly what acts did occur between you and Commander Spock, without embellishment, please?'

Spock closed his eyes as Mavanesh continued to speak, trying to control his reactions to what was being said before this room full of people. It was most illogical how psychological torment could transfer itself to such a sense of nausea. Then, finally, he became aware of Anderson pleading for a recess – and pleading for it on his account. Numbly he heard the request being granted, and almost without consciousness of his actions he found himself kneeling on the floor in the nearby toilets, regurgitating his sparse breakfast into a shining white porcelain bowl.

'Spockesh…'

The voice behind him was almost a whisper, and he turned his head slightly, panting, to see Delash kneeling behind him, reaching a hand out towards his shoulder.

'I'm all right,' he murmured, clambering to his feet. He wavered, and was grateful for Delash's firm hand helping him over to the basins.

'Drink,' Delash said in a low voice, turning on the tap for him.

Spock thrust a hand into the icy water, bringing a scoop of it to his mouth and letting it wash away the bitter taste of vomit.

'You don't have to go back in,' Delash said to him softly, putting his arms about Spock's body as he straightened up.

'I am, in fact, legally obliged to go back in,' Spock said in a flat voice as he leant against Delash's support.

'There must be another way…'

Spock shook his head. 'I am not a child. I do not merit the protection of a video link or screening from those I accuse. I am a Vulcan. I have learnt disciplines almost since birth that should enable me to deal with this.'

Delash smiled softly. 'Spockesh, were you taught disciplines in the cradle to help you deal with slavery and rape?'

'Indirectly, yes,' Spock nodded firmly. 'I was taught control of my emotions. I was taught the philosophy of accepting what could not be changed. Those disciplines – failed me at times on Villanesh. They failed me two minutes ago. I must not allow them to fail me again. I cannot fail myself.'

'You won't fail yourself,' Delash said firmly.

Spock stood away from Delash's support, attempting to regain some self-possession.

'They are trying to establish a cultural precedent,' he said in a low voice. 'They are trying to argue that my treatment was nothing more than the cultural norm on your planet. The Federation dislikes interfering with the unique cultures of alien civilisations.'

'But – you were stolen,' Delash protested. 'You were kidnapped and taken there. You weren't born into slavery. You didn't fall into it through debt or crime…'

Spock met Delash's eyes briefly. He had never asked Delash what had led him into slavery.

'Debt,' Delash said, reading Spock's unspoken question. 'I – was replaced in my job. I had no means of supporting my family. So I was committed to slavery.'

'Your – family?' Spock asked slowly. He had never seen anything of the kind in Delash's mind.

Delash nodded slowly. 'I had a woman and a child. When I fell into debt I took the option of service. My Lord would re-establish my family with the means to live, in return for my service.'

Spock blinked his eyes closed slowly. He could not imagine how difficult it would be to voluntarily make that decision.

'And now?' he asked. 'You are no longer enslaved. Your family – ?'

Delash laughed shortly. 'The child will be an adult now. And her – I don't know where she is or how she survives, but likely she is remarried and happy. Remarried to a man who can support her…'

Spock stared at him. The man he knew as Delash had morphed into someone subtly different. _*His_* Delash had become a being with a whole new history, far deeper than that of a simple slave.

'Spockesh?' Delash asked curiously. 'What is wrong?'

Spock shook his head. 'You have a family, Delash. You should not give them up as past ghosts. You may even have grandchildren…'

Delash smiled slowly. 'Spockesh, my people don't work like that. If family took care of family on my planet I would not have found myself in slavery.'

'You found yourself in slavery to save your family,' Spock pointed out.

'To ensure my child grew up in the best way,' Delash nodded. 'Most societies will do that for their children, Spock. But my child is grown. My duty is served. I am without ties now – of any kind.'

Spock's eyes bored into his, trying to read the alien mind that he had thought that he knew.

'Of course,' he nodded, letting a slight smile touch his lips. He put his hand to Delash's arm. 'Come. We have an hour, I believe. Let's make use of the time we are allowed.' At the slight sparkle in Delash's eyes he said, 'No. Not that. I would welcome a beverage of some description.'

******

The trial lasted for more than a week. By the time that summing up had been done by both defence and prosecution, Spock felt as if every second of his time on Villanesh had been wrung from his mind and paraded before the court. He hoped that his side of the story had been viewed more favourably than Mavanesh's. It was hard to imagine how Mavanesh _*could_* appear righteous to men and women brought up within the Federation's network of ethics and beliefs. But that defending attorney had been _*persuasive_*_. _Lieutenant Anderson had also been persuasive, he believed, but…

Spock sat alone in his quarters with those thoughts revolving in his mind. He had declined to sit in the starbase courtroom to listen to the verdict. He had already played enough of a part in the week's events. In some ways the verdict did not matter. It would not affect him. He was free now whether or not one of his abusers was condemned. But still, it mattered… It mattered so very deeply.

'Spock.'

He jumped at the low voice. He had not even heard his door open.

He looked up to see Jim standing in the doorway to his quarters, a subdued smile on his face.

'Come in, Jim,' Spock nodded.

Kirk took a few steps inside the room.

'It's over,' he said softly. 'Verdict and sentencing.'

Spock's eyebrow rose a minute amount, but he did not speak.

'Guilty,' Kirk said in the same soft voice, coming closer to the Vulcan. 'On the charges of rape, sexual assault and physical assault. They couldn't stick the unlawful imprisonment on him, since it was Milaresh who held you all that time. There wasn't enough evidence to prove the times Mavanesh – restrained you – or who it was who instigated it. But – guilty,' he repeated.

Spock nodded, letting his breath slip out slowly between his lips.

'Thank you, Captain,' he said in a similarly subdued voice.

'Are you happy?' Kirk asked. 'As you can be,' he amended quickly.

'It is a satisfactory verdict,' Spock nodded. 'It was always obvious that the death of Milaresh would make many of the offences void. But – '

He sighed. Despite his words there was a certain dissatisfaction in the fact that his blinding, muting, imprisonment and every other hallmark of his slavery, outside of Milaresh's chamber, could never be challenged in law. Milaresh had escaped feeling a measure of the pain and humiliation to which he had subjected Spock. But still… A man who had increased the misery of his days immeasurably had been justly convicted and punished.

'What is the sentence, Captain?' he asked abruptly.

'Thirty-five years in a Federation security institution,' Kirk said flatly. 'Most likely a borderlands one out here somewhere. They would have added counselling into that, but his actions were sanctioned by his society, so they can't establish he has any problems that can actually be changed by counselling. I would have added flogging to it, personally…'

Spock nodded, remembering briefly what it was like to be stripped and bound before an audience, and then subjected to the pain of being beaten with a lash. Every philosophy he lived by disapproved of corporal punishment, but the idea of Mavanesh suffering the same pain was peculiarly pleasing to him.

But thirty-five years was a long time… His own imprisonment had lasted for less than a year… Mavanesh would, perhaps, be abused as he had. He had a moment of hope that the rumoured viciousness of some Federation institutions would be rife in the one that Mavanesh was sent to… Revenge was not logical – but it was satisfying.

'It is all that could be hoped for,' he said steadily, not revealing any of the improper thoughts that were running through his mind.

'Also,' Kirk continued, 'the court advised that the Federation should bring sanctions against Villanesh while they continue to allow slavery on their planet. That had no official bearing, but they let journalists in for the verdict, so I think the story's going to be pretty widespread within the next week or so.'

Spock nodded again. He did not relish the idea of his story being spread about Federation gossip sheets, but if it assisted an end to slavery on Villanesh he could not complain.

'Spock, you know, don't you, that there's no need for Delash to be on the ship now?' Kirk asked hesitantly, after a long silence. 'I spoke to him after the verdict, and offered him passage to anywhere along our route – within reason – but he's elected to stay on the starbase when we leave. The refugee commission allows him enough money for passage to a nearby planet, and something to set himself up with accommodation and a job.'

'Yes, of course,' Spock nodded quickly, covering any other reaction to that news. 'He is essentially redundant on the _Enterprise_. But he is at least skilled as a labourer and indoor servant, if nothing else.'

The word *_servant_* lingered uncomfortably in his mind. There was a world of difference between servitude and slavery, but still, he wanted Delash to be autonomous and self-respecting, not bound to the capricious whims of the one who employed him.

'I'm sure he'll set up in something,' Kirk smiled reassuringly. 'The refugee commission's pretty good about looking after people until they can look after themselves.'

'Yes, that is true,' Spock nodded.

Kirk smiled again, and Spock gained the sense that he was mingling an apology for his previous reaction to Spock's relationship with Delash and the reassurance of his continued friendship. Spock _*almost_* smiled back. He had missed this close companionship with his friend, when both could sit together in one room and know what the other was thinking without having to speak. There was something in Kirk's smile that indicated a return to normal after the weeks and months of strangeness in their lives.

'Anyway,' Kirk said, after a long, warm silence. 'Do you fancy some company at the moment?'

Spock's eyebrow rose in the traditional way.

'I believe I am already experiencing your company, Jim,' he said, and for a brief, weightless moment he felt a normalcy between them, as if neither had any knowledge of rape or suffering or misery in Spock's recent past. 'However, I would appreciate a continuation of your company.'


	14. Epilogue

Epilogue.

Spock had to suppress a certain degree of wariness as he walked alone through the main thoroughfare of the starbase's cultural centre. The increased security since his abduction was obvious – there were alert guards both Starfleet and private stationed all along the wide walkway. No one could afford to lose business due to the fear of slavers.

He held his overnight bag loosely at his side as he walked, trying to assume a relaxed stance, but he could not pretend that his eyes were not scanning the crowd, both for the slavers who had abducted him and for that moment of recognition in people's eyes as they realised just who he was. But no one seemed to recognise him as he moved purposefully towards the accommodation district. He was dressed in dark, informal clothes – the two days leave he had been granted on the starbase had nothing to do with Starfleet business. To most people around him he was just a Vulcan civilian in the melting pot of the cultural centre.

Delash's room on the starbase was much like Spock's own quarters on the _Enterprise_ – or at least, how his quarters had been when he had first taken possession of them, without any of the personal touches that had made them his own. Delash owned little more than a suitcase donated by the refugee commission, and an assortment of clothes variously acquired and bought in the weeks since his emancipation. Spock did not, however, find himself spending very much time taking stock of his surroundings. Very soon after stepping through the door into this private sanctum he was lying alongside Delash in the wide bed there, skin to skin, relishing warmth set to Vulcan preferences and the sensation of Delash's hands appreciating every inch of his body.

'Spock, I would – ' Delash began hesitantly after long minutes of silence. Spock could suddenly feel the man's nervousness, and wondered what it was that had provoked such a reaction.

'Delash?' he asked in a low voice. 'Tell me…'

Delash traced a hand down Spock's back, letting it linger on the Vulcan's taut buttock under the silken blanket. 'Spockesh, I have tasted you and felt you and experienced you in every way imaginable. You've made me feel as if I was floating, as if I had never felt pain or suffering. Except for in one way… You have never let me be – a man with you.'

Spock raised his eyes slowly to meet those of Delash, reading the deep desire mingled with potential hurt in his dark irises.

'I would not hurt you,' Delash promised softly. 'In all these times you have never hurt me, and I can promise that I would not hurt you. I know well enough how to do this without pain…'

'It – is not the physical pain…' Spock said slowly.

A thousand images were crowding in his mind, of a thousand different ways that he had savoured Delash's body in the past few weeks. He had performed feats that he had never imagined were possible. He had dominated and owned Delash, and Delash had made him feel that he was blazing at the pinnacle of the universe instead of huddling deep in an unknown abyss. Spock, and no one else, had been responsible for creating the most exquisite pleasure in the man's mind, for drawing forth the most heartfelt moans of satisfaction and shivers of delight. He knew Delash's body almost better than his own. But one image blotted over all those other ones – the memory of being helpless, tightly spread over a cold table, of a shaft of cruel, merciless hardness ripping into the softness of his body, and that other's feelings of triumph and domination sinking into his mind on top of his own humiliation and pain.

He swallowed hard. His eyes were still fixed on Delash's, but for those few moments he had ceased to see them. Now he saw the longing and caring and promise of gentleness in them again.

'Turn over,' Delash said, touching his arm softly. 'Like we used to.'

Spock hesitated for a long moment before turning on the mattress, curling on his side as he had on his sleep mat all those weeks ago. Delash moved to lie alongside him, spooning his body against Spock's, skin to skin. His fingers began to stroke softly at Spock's ears and neck, and then moved downwards to caress the curve between hip and ribcage. Spock closed his eyes, lying very still, and felt Delash's lips touching at his neck, his beard moving against Spock's skin as his lips dropped kisses. Spock shivered as those moving lips trailed over a nerve that seemed to travel from scalp to groin, and he sighed almost silently.

'There,' Delash whispered against his neck. His fingers were stroking along the contours of his buttocks now, trailing along the crease where they met his thighs, and then delicately tracing the dark cleft between them. Spock could feel the firmness of Delash's erection lying against his back, and he focussed only on that and the moving fingers, trying to push away any other memory that infiltrated his mind.

Delash moved away briefly, and suddenly Spock could smell oil, mingling with the scent of sweat. He stiffened for a moment, but then he let the scent of the oil through his defences. Nothing could be further from the heavy, spiced stuff that Milaresh had used. This was light, with a sharp tang of citrus in its scent. And Delash's fingers were touching him again, moving with growing determination along the cleft between his buttocks, slipping deeper as the oil eased his path.

Spock drew in a deep breath, biting his lower lip momentarily into his mouth. Delash stopped immediately.

'Spock,' he whispered. 'Must I stop?'

Spock released the breath. Just that one action – the stopping, and the gentle question – caused relaxation to ease through his body. He shook his head, whispering, 'No,' and adjusted his position a little, turning a little more onto his front and pulling one knee up to his chest.

'Oh, Spock,' Delash murmured in a low, warm voice.

As his oiled fingers touched the tight pucker Spock almost moaned. He had never been _*touched_* here before. Roughly stretched or rubbed with lubricant, yes, but never caressed like this. Delash's fingers were circling lightly, bringing unknown nerves to life. His fingers moved down briefly, stroking firmly down to the soft skin of his scrotum, and then back to the tight hole. This time Spock did moan, as one finger slipped just a centimetre inside and then slipped out again. Then Delash's fingers were stroking him, gently relaxing the tightness with every shivering caress, and then slipping inside again, teasing him with their light touch and he found himself deliberately loosening the ring of muscle, willing a deeper and firmer penetration.

'Spock, are you ready?' Delash asked softly, his mouth very close to Spock's ear, and the Vulcan found himself whispering, '_*Please…_*'

He felt Delash's soft tip slip closer, and as Delash moved forward with great care he relaxed another degree, moving his own hand backwards to cup Delash's buttock, to urge him firmly on as he hesitated.

'_*Please,_*' he repeated in a low voice. 'Now…'

There was a brief, brief moment of pain, but before he had time to process the feeling it blended seamlessly into gliding, smooth pleasure. He kept his hand on Delash's buttock as a dizzy sense of gratification burst in his mind. It had never been like this… It had never been more than a swift, cruel plunge, becoming faster and faster until the climax. No one had ever moved at this slow, steady, careful pace. No one had ever concerned themselves with _*his_* pleasure.

And Delash moved again, slowly withdrawing before slipping in again, and his oiled hand slipped under Spock's arm and over his flank to curl around Spock's heated erection and move in time with the steady, measured thrusts of his hips. The movements became more urgent and animal, but any small pain was lost within the explosions of dizzy ecstasy that were consuming Spock's mind and body. He lost consciousness that there was any world beyond his body, that there was any logic or reason or discipline in the world, and as they both came he cried out in an inarticulate gasp, careless of the outside world.

He came back to himself slowly, realising that Delash was still curled about his body, still partly inside him, still with his hand curled loosely about Spock's dwindling erection. He let out his breath in a long, satisfied sigh, and smiled.

'There,' Delash said, close by his ear again. 'There is the difference.'

Spock could barely move. His body was consumed with a warm looseness that had removed all impetus from every muscle. He felt that he almost could not speak, but he said in a faltering whisper, 'Yes. There is the difference…'

Delash's head lowered itself against his, and he felt his lips kiss him again, and Delash's arms tightened about his body.

'We have one more day,' he whispered. 'Let me keep showing you the difference. And then you can leave on your starship, and I will find myself a home and a life, and I will be waiting for you whenever you call for me. Does that sound good to you?'

Spock allowed himself to smile again. For these past few weeks he had engaged in more willing intercourse than he ever had in his life, but it was not until now that he had felt complete.

'That does sound good to me,' he said, turning himself in Delash's arms so that they lay chest to chest. 'A perfectly equitable solution.'

'And, Spockesh,' Delash said softly, laying a hand softly on his cheek. 'When you go back to your ship – let your captain in to you.'

'Let him in to me?' Spock repeated slowly.

'You need him, Spockesh, just as you needed me. And he needs you back. Let him take care of you for me.'

Spock's mouth quirked upwards. 'I will let Jim take care of me,' he promised. 'If you will find someone who will take care of you.'

Delash moved his hand back down to lock his fingers firmly about Spock's own.

'There is a deal, Spockesh. I promise.'

******

Spock beamed back to the _Enterprise_ with a feeling of relaxation through his neck and spine that had not been there for many months. It had, oddly, not been difficult to say goodbye to Delash. Delash's view of the relationship that existed between them was surprisingly logical, and surprisingly akin to Spock's own. Both understood that they had not formed a binding, exclusive relationship. Delash was quite content to start his life anew on another planet while Spock reclaimed his life on the _Enterprise_. A unique connection had formed between them, but it was something that lingered deep in the recesses of their minds, and it would not interfere with their daily lives. If their paths crossed, deliberately or accidentally, their friendship would be immediate, but Spock doubted that the heady weeks that he had just experienced would ever be repeated. McCoy would perhaps label the experience as a peculiar form of therapy. Perhaps he was right. Spock certainly felt more complete and self-assured than he had in many months.

As he materialised in the transporter room and the glitter died out of his vision his eyes lit on a familiar sight. Kirk was standing just in front of the transporter console, a warm, welcoming smile on his face.

'Welcome back aboard, Mr Spock,' he said, holding out a hand towards the Vulcan.

Spock stepped down from the transporter, nodding his head in his customary acknowledgement of Kirk's human greeting. It was almost as if he had been gone for weeks. Perhaps he had, metaphorically at least.

'Delash got off all right?' Kirk asked as they moved out through the transporter room door.

Spock nodded concisely. 'There were no delays. His ship departed without problems.'

Kirk glanced sideways at him. 'And you,' he said. 'Are you all right, Mr Spock?'

Spock paused in his step to look at his captain.

'Yes, Jim,' he said in a warm tone. 'I am – surprisingly well.'

Kirk smiled, and put a hand to his arm. 'Got some time for some chess in my quarters?' he asked casually.

Spock's eyebrow quirked upwards. 'Since I have not yet resumed normal duties, my schedule is at your whim, Captain. I have all the time that you allow me.'

Laughter snorted out of Kirk's nose.

'I'm sorry, Spock,' he said, wrestling control of himself at Spock's bewildered expression. 'It wasn't that funny, I know… But – it's just so nice to have _*you_* back, Spock. I've missed you.'

'As have I you, Jim,' Spock said with a very slight smile. 'As have I you.'


End file.
